


Rebellion, Treason and Plot

by joely_jo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Love, Politics, Pre-Series, Robert's Rebellion, Treason
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 71,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joely_jo/pseuds/joely_jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amid the turbulent waters of the Trident, a simple twist of fate allows the path of the Rebellion to alter – Prince Rhaegar Targaryen kills Robert Baratheon with a sword strike to the chest and the Royalist forces emerge victorious. But for the leaders of the Rebellion, and their families, the future suddenly looks very bleak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. CATELYN - Dark Wings, Dark Words

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a pretty big challenge for me as a writer - the cut-throat world of politics scares me in real life, let alone in Westeros! I can't promise to keep to super-quick updates, but I will endeavour to be as regular as possible! There's a lot of story to cover...

CATELYN - Dark Wings, Dark Words

 

The news came to her by raven.

 _Dark wings, dark words_ , went the old saying, and on that unseasonably cold morning, the words could not have been darker. She was alone and sitting in the window of the Wheel Tower, watching the Tumblestone as it rolled relentlessly below her, when Maester Vyman brought the message. The maester had a craggy, lined face that was not made for expressions, though she could tell by the set of it that the news was not good. As she reached for the tight-rolled piece of parchment, her hand shook.

The seal was the Targaryen dragon, pressed into black wax.  

At the sight of it, Catelyn felt faint. A Targaryen dragon could mean only one thing – defeat. And defeat spelled out still worse things, things that she had determinedly tried not to think of since they had all ridden off to war. _Her father… her husband…_ She put a hand to her head and rubbed her eyes as her vision swam in front of her. Her whole body seemed to sway. The maester reached for her and put one hand on her elbow. “My lady?” he asked with concern.

She could manage little more than a nod. Her thumb slipped under the seal and broke it and she unrolled the parchment. The writing that filled the page was lightly pressed and slanting to the left and Catelyn read the words with a growing hollowness in the pit of her belly. Robert Baratheon had been slain at the Trident by Prince Rhaegar, and her husband, Eddard of House Stark, had been captured along with her father and Lord Arryn of the Vale, and all three were being taken to King’s Landing for sentencing. The signature at the bottom read Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone.

When she finished reading, the letter fell from her hands and fluttered forlornly to the floor. Her eyes found Maester Vyman’s. “Dear gods,” she murmured.

“What is it?”

At first, she could not form the words, and they wallowed their way around her brain with terrifying incoherency. She felt as if she had drunk some potion that had dulled her senses or turned her into some kind of lackwit. “It is over,” she finally managed in a voice little louder than a whisper.

The great noise made by the water wheel beneath them suddenly sounded absurdly loud.

The maester frowned. “Over?”

“The rebellion,” she said. “The war… Robert Baratheon is dead.”

Numb shock descended and Catelyn looked up at Vyman with the slowly dawning realisation that this letter spoke the end of their lives as they had been. Everything was about to change.

“Robert Baratheon is dead and my father, my husband and Lord Arryn have been captured and are being taken in King’s Landing.”

“My lady…” said Vyman with sympathy darkening in his eyes. He bent to pick up the fallen letter. “May I?”

Catelyn nodded. She closed her eyes and breathed in deep. The babe in her belly gave a shudder, as if it too had somehow heard the news, and instinctively, she placed a hand over the movement to soothe it. She heard the maester clear his throat, and then speak. “This is grievous news.” He handed her the letter again and Catelyn took it back. For an obscene moment, she wanted to scream aloud and rip the thing into shreds, as if that could make the news it had told be reversed. “You must think on what to do.”

At that moment, there were no words, let alone ideas, in Catelyn’s head, so she simply stared up at Vyman emptily. This was not the sort of thing her septa had trained her for. The maester continued, “I fear the King will want their heads. Look how he dealt with Brandon Stark and Lord Rickard. He will not stand for traitors in the realm.”

A cold shiver ran through her at the mentioning of those names and the vile manner of their deaths. She could still remember the shock and horror she had felt when her father had given her the news, how the tears had failed to come even though she had willed them to. She saw her father delivered a similar fate, imagined him being roasted alive in the throne room at King’s Landing while Aerys Targaryen looked on and laughed. It was enough to make her sick to her stomach.

And then there was her husband – the man she had known a mere two weeks before she had sent him off to war, but whose child she now carried within her. It was _his_ head that the king had called for after he had murdered Brandon Stark and Lord Rickard, and _his_ sister Prince Rhaegar had stolen. Eddard Stark was not a war-like man, but he had gone to war to defend his family’s honour and men had backed him because they believed he had just cause.

She could not let either of them suffer such terrible fates as those dealt to Brandon and Lord Rickard. “What can we do?”

“I do not know that there is much we can do, my lady, although it pains me to say it.”

Catelyn frowned at the maester’s defeated tone. She valued his opinion, but doing nothing was not an option. Slowly, she sank back down on the window seat. The Targaryens might have vanquished the rebel forces, but now they were going to have to calm the storm, and as far as Catelyn could see, the only way to do that would be to broker some kind of deal. Too much of the realm had been involved to simply crush the uprising with brutality. “What of Stannis and the Stormlords and the Knights of the Vale who all swore their allegiance to Robert? What of the North and the Riverlands? These men will not sit idly by while their commanders are executed.”

“No… but while ever the King holds Lord Hoster, Lord Arryn and Lord Stark, their men will not stir a foot in anger.”

“Then we must send an envoy to treat with the Prince,” said Catelyn. “The Mad King may want to see the rebel leaders burn, but I do not believe Prince Rhaegar will allow it. Or he won’t if he has any sense in his head. He needs peace. The Targaryens need peace.” She was trying to sound confident, but the truth was that she wanted to hear her thoughts aloud as much as anything. “Or they may as well pit half the realm against them.”

The maester said nothing, and for a moment, Catelyn did not fill the silence. “The letter was signed Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, was it not? It did not come from the King’s hand.” she continued eventually. Vyman nodded. His thin fingers played with the red satin piping that edged his blue robes.

“Mayhaps Prince Rhaegar is acting for his father,” Vyman said. “He may even have taken the throne. Your father confided in me that there was to be talk at Harrenhal of the Prince acting as Regent. It could be that he has made that move already.”

She had heard the rumours that the Prince was concerned for his father’s ailing mental health, heard too the talk that he was planning to remove Aerys from power and rule the Seven Kingdoms himself. But rumours and hearsay were rather different from truth and fact, and whether you were the son of a minor lord or the heir to the throne, moving against your father was a terrible sin in the eyes of many. Catelyn did not know if the Prince had the mettle to do that, but if indeed he had, then he would surely welcome new alliances.

“If he has, then we could use that in our favour.”

“You believe there is something valuable to be had? Prince Rhaegar is still a Targaryen, my lady, and King Aerys was never known for his mercy or forgiveness.”

“Well, I would rather deal with Rhaegar than his madman father.” She gave a short, ironic laugh. “And if he has indeed taken his father’s throne, he will be looking for friends.”

Vyman hummed in uncertain agreement.

Catelyn got to her feet and smoothed out her dress. Saying the words out loud had given her a kind of courage and set her course in her own mind. The fate of Riverrun, and that of Winterfell, rested with her next actions. “I must go to King’s Landing.”

“King’s Landing?” repeated Vyman. “Are you sure that such a thing is wise?” He shifted uncomfortably on the spot, clearly concerned with her plan.

“Wise or not, I do not see another option. Edmure is not yet old enough to be our father’s envoy and if I stay here, I am powerless to oppose any judgement given. If they are sentenced to death…” Her voice trailed away and she shook her head. “No, I must go.”

“But the capital is a dangerous place, my lady, especially considering who you are. You may find yourself walking into a trap.”

Catelyn thought again of Brandon, and how the jaws of the dragon had closed around him. Would the same thing happen to her? “I will not go alone. And I have one advantage in my favour – I am a woman, and there is no honour in harming a woman.” She did not truly believe that her sex would offer her protection, but it might give her a way in – women bearing no arms were not usually considered a threat.

“You are a woman, and you are with child,” said Vyman. “If something happened… you carry the heir to Winterfell in your belly.”

Those words were true enough, and for a moment Catelyn wavered, the weight of responsibility sitting heavy on her. She knew she carried a precious thing in her womb, but she did not wish to have that babe grow up fatherless. Eddard Stark should see the child they had made together. And although she had barely had a chance to know her husband before he had left for war, she did not wish to become a widow at eight and ten either.

She turned to Maester Vyman and saw the concern in his eyes. “I understand, Maester, and I appreciate your concern for me, but I am sure this is the right course. Tell Cossey to prepare the horses and have Ser Robin, Ser Desmond and Utherydes Wayn meet me in my father’s solar in an hour.”

The maester bowed his head and disappeared, leaving Catelyn alone in the Wheel Tower once again. Unknowingly, her hand had closed around the letter as she had spoken and now it was crumpled. She unrolled it, trying to smooth out some of the creases, and stared at it again. For a moment, doubt rumbled in her head like a gathering storm. _Am I doing the right thing? Or is this the folly of a girl with her head in the clouds?_ The only way to know was to follow it through and find out. She drew in a deep, steadying breath, folded the letter into quarters and pushed it out of sight into the bodice of her dress.

An hour later, she sat in her father’s chair and gave her orders to the steward and then to Ser Robin and Ser Desmond. She wanted a party of six riders and they would leave at first light on the morrow. The men would wear mail beneath plain tunics and there were to be no Tully banners flying, the better to disguise them until they arrived in the capital. If any of the men had misgivings, they did not voice them in her company, and for that Catelyn was grateful. She had debated her decision with the maester and that had taken all her wit and strength of mind; she did not think could do the same again.

As it was, she thought to have escaped without question when they took their leave, but Ser Desmond hung back. His cheeks were pale and his face drawn and serious. He looked nothing at all like the red-faced knight who had shouted all kinds of bawdy japes at her bedding. “My lady,” he began, “a word if you will?”

Catelyn nodded and the master-at-arms closed the door to afford them a little privacy. He turned then and his eyes softened. A beat passed. “You are sure of this course, my lady?” he questioned. There was nothing threatening in his tone, no challenge or rebuke. Catelyn sighed.

“I am, Ser Desmond,” she confirmed. “I cannot leave them to their fates.”

He nodded. “No… I have been a servant of this house since I was grown and I owe your father much. When he left for war, he made me castellan of Riverrun and charged me to do whatever was needed if the worst should come to pass.” He paused. “You have my word that I shall support you in this endeavour and I pray that you are successful.”

Catelyn smiled at his kindness. She had been expecting opposition or distrust, so it was pleasant to hear his words of encouragement. “Would you wish to be armed yourself?” he asked.

 _Armed?_ The idea almost made her jump. She had never carried any weapon on her person – it had never been needed within the safety of Riverrun’s walls – and she had no love for swords, but while she wanted their passage to King’s Landing to be peaceful and unchallenged, she also knew that she should be prepared. “A dagger, mayhaps?” she suggested.

Ser Desmond nodded, clearly relieved. “Very well, my lady.” For a moment, Catelyn thought that he had finished, and she almost turned away, but then he lowered his voice and added, “I think your father would be proud of your decision.”

She almost snorted back a laugh. Hoster Tully had oft been called a canny man, but she knew that reputation had been won with caution and wise choices. He would call this venture into the dragon’s lair a folly. “My father would tell me I was a fool,” she replied.

“Ah, he might say that, my lady, but underneath his outward disapproval… he would be proud.”

With a small smile, he opened the door and departed, leaving Catelyn alone to contemplate his words.

Dawn came creeping upon the castle the next day, and Catelyn woke to a sky that was grey and heavy with cloud, threatening rain, and a cool wind rising from the north. She dressed in her warmest garb, choosing practical breeches and riding leathers rather than voluminous skirts, and tied back her hair in a tight braid, the better to keep it from knotting in the wind. In the mirror, she looked half a stranger, like some wild young girl stepping out on an adventure, not the married lady of a great lord, six moons gone with child.

The sight of the swell of her belly, made more prominent by the close-fitting breeches and leather jerkin she wore, made her pause, and the doubts began to surface again. She had felt healthy and well beyond measure these last few moons, in sharp contrast to the sickness and soreness that had beset her when she had first learned she was carrying a child, but even so, she knew that women in her condition were not usually to be found gallivanting about the realm on horseback in pursuit of justice. She might be feeling full of energy at present, but in three moons she would be ready to give birth, and what then? The journey to King’s Landing alone would take weeks, and then she could be several more weeks in the capital while she sought an audience with the Prince and awaited his decision before she could begin the ride back home again, if indeed she would be allowed to ride back home at all. Would she go to the birthing bed in some roadside inn, or would it be the harsh stone walls of a cell in Traitor’s Walk that would greet her firstborn?

Shaking her head, she forcibly chased those thoughts from her mind. _It does not do to think on such things_ , she told herself as she turned away from the mirror. She must be strong and determined and stay true to her choices, or else the men that rode with her would begin to question her resolve. There was nothing to do but simply hope that she had chosen wisely.      

When she descended to the courtyard, there were a dozen men already awaiting her. The horses were nervy and fractious in the gathering breeze, throwing their heads up and skitting about as their girths were cinched and their bridles adjusted by a swarm of stable boys.

It was a strange sight to see a group of men bedecked in tunics that bore no sigils or adornments. Ser Robin Ryger, who had long since fallen out with his family but still always wore the white and green colours of his house, looked positively wan in dull browns and beiges, and Catelyn almost mistook Ser Desmond Grell for another until he turned around and showed her his jowls. “Good morrow, my lady,” he said as she approached. He smiled, but it was a small smile and tense with unspoken apprehension.

“Good morrow,” she replied. “Are we ready to depart?”

“Indeed we are,” he confirmed. “If we make the Inn of the Kneeling Man by nightfall, we will have made good time.”

“The River Road is an easy ride.”

“Yes it is, but we will be riding quite close to the battlefield of the Trident, my lady, and there may still be disruption to our passage.” He helped her mount up and sweep her cloak over her horse’s haunches, then turned to his own ride. “Stay close to me, my lady, if you would. I should like to keep my eye on you at all times.”

Catelyn nodded, and then they were on their way. Just a few miles from Riverrun, it became very clear that it would be far from an easy ride. The River Road was churned to a sea of mud by thousands of boots and still more hooves, and it wasn’t long before the horses began to sink up to their fetlocks in the sucking ooze. Ser Robin slowed their pace to a plodding walk when one of the horses slipped and nearly tipped his rider on the ground and from then on, the journey was arduous. By midday, they had travelled only half the distance they had intended to.

When they stopped to water the horses and steal a bite to eat, Ser Robin came to her and said, “My lady, we cannot stop for long or we will be travelling deep into the night and I fear that would be unwise in this territory. There will likely be a lot of tired and desperate men who, come nightfall, would happily knock us from our mounts and take the horses.” Along the way, they had passed a group of wearied soldiers, some of them injured, hauling themselves through the thick mud as they made their way back to their holdfasts or villages on foot. The men had afforded them bitter, unfriendly stares, muttering amongst themselves as they had ridden past. Catelyn had thought of the dagger at her hip and kept the hood of her cloak up, but their stares had still made her feel uneasy.

“How much further is it?” she asked Ser Robin.

“A good four or five hours ride at a healthy pace, my lady,” he confessed. “And evening will be drawing in by then. We will almost certainly end our journey in darkness.”   

She tried not to think about that as they got underway again, for it did no good to be afraid. Instead she thought ahead to their passage beyond the Inn of the Kneeling Man, past the crossroad where the River Road met with the Kingsroad and south to Darry. Artem Darry had defied Lord Hoster when he had called his banners for Robert Baratheon and instead stayed loyal to the Targaryens. He had been slain along with his two younger brothers at the Trident, or so Catelyn had learned, leaving the youngest Darry, Raymun, as heir to the lordship. Catelyn could remember playing with Raymun in the Godswood at Riverrun when his family had come to swear their oaths to their liege lord – he was a few years older than she, but ever young at heart. Had the circumstances been different, she would have happily begged a night of comfort in his castle, but after all that had passed, she doubted that they would be welcome. It would have to be inns and taverns and questionable comfort all the way to King’s Landing.  

The last ten miles or so before the Inn of the Kneeling Man, the River Road had been freshly laid with shingles and they were able to increase their pace, but it was still full dark and growing chill by the time they rode up to the squat, grey stone building. The significance of the place was not lost upon Catelyn. It was here where Torrhen Stark, the last King in the North, had surrendered his crown to Aegon the Conqueror and bent his knee to the Targaryens. She thought of her husband, another Stark, though not a king, and wondered if his pride and honour would allow him to do the same.

She prayed that it would. She was doing all she could, but if her lord husband could not eat from the plate she might serve him, what would come of him?

She ate the meal they were served in silence, brooding on that thought, and then retired to her room, a cramped and dusty place stuck up in the eaves, with a single, uncomfortable bed and reeds upon the floor. She stripped down to her smallclothes and shift, and then crawled beneath the blankets, shivering a little at the coolness she found there. Curling onto her side, she thought of her father and her lord husband deep in the darkness of the Black Cells beneath the Red Keep – their night would surely be much more uncomfortable than the one that beckoned her now – and prayed to the Father to keep them both safe.  

She must have been on the edge of sleep when the knock came at the door, and in a weary voice, she called out, “Who goes there?”

“My lady, is it I, Desmond.”

There was something in his tone that shook her fully awake, and she stumbled from the bed, hurriedly throwing her cloak about her shoulders to screen her lack of dress, and lifted the latch. Desmond Grell stood in the narrow corridor outside her room, a candle in an iron holder clutched in his hand. He too, appeared to have been roused from sleep, for what little hair that remained to him was standing up on end and his expression was bleary. “What is it?” she enquired.

“There has been some news, my lady,” he said. He glanced up and down the empty corridor. “May I come in?”

Catelyn wondered what news could make him wish to enter her room rather than speak here, but she nodded and stood aside. Desmond stepped past her. “Please close the door, if you would? I think it is important that this news is not heard by anyone but us as yet.”

She shut the door, and then turned to him and prompted, “Go on…”

“A rider from Riverrun came and begged an audience with you. Some of the men were still drinking ale downstairs and they knew you had retired, so they roused me from my bed so I might speak with him instead.” He paused, and looked at her, a frown patterned between his eyes. “There has been an incident at King’s Landing, my lady--”

“An incident?” she interrupted, unable to keep the dread from her voice. In an instant, her head was filled with images of Brandon Stark, straining and choking, once again. Was she about to hear the news she had feared she would hear? “What has happened? Tell me.”

“It is not what you think, my lady…” continued Ser Desmond. “Jaime Lannister has slain King Aerys and a wildfire has engulfed the Red Keep, rumoured to have been started on the King’s orders. There have been many fatalities.”

In her chest, Catelyn’s heart stopped and then restarted, a sharp, stabbing pain punctuating each frantic beat. “But my father… Lord Eddard?”

Ser Desmond shook his head. “The messenger knew nothing of them, my lady.”

“Oh gods,” she murmured. Ser Desmond reached for her hands and took them in his own. They were shaking. _All of this, all my effort and intent… my determination… it has come to naught already._ The tears swelled in her eyes, and as she blinked, the first fat drops sped down her cheeks. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “Oh gods, oh gods…” 

To be continued...


	2. EDDARD - Dragons and Wolves

It had been raining for hours. It was not the kind of rain that washed you clean or made you raise your hands in the air with the joy of being well and truly drenched, no, this was dank, dreary rain that misted and mizzled through the air as it soaked you steadily to your bones. There was no shelter from it either, for it crept in underneath trees and canopies and hoods like ghostly fingers.

They had stopped in Brindlewood for the night, but while pavilions had been erected and fires lit for the royal party and the men who travelled with them, Ned had been left in fetters in his stockade beneath a spreading sycamore. The ground under the tree was hard and knotted with roots, so whichever way he laid he had something sticking into him. When he finally slept, it had been fitful and fleeting, his exhaustion overwhelming him, and his dreams had been dark. In them, he had once again seen Robert knocked from his horse, his foot caught in the stirrup as his head rang to the onslaught of Rhaegar’s attack. He hadn’t been there to see the killing blow, but in his dreams, he saw it over and over, saw the sword pierce through steel and skin, and into the cage of ribs to still the beating of the heart of Robert Baratheon.

When he woke, he wondered if he would ever be able to dream of anything else.

But his waking thoughts were little better. He had been bound and chained by the time a group of unknown men dragged Robert’s body from the ford. They had stripped him of his armour in plain sight, japing as they slung him naked over the back of a horse and thrust a spear into his buttock. Ned had almost cried out at the indignity of it all, but had stopped himself at the last moment, knowing that to do so would achieve little and likely only bring some vile cruelty for him too. 

An hour or two before dawn, the rain had begun, and it had not stopped since. By the time a silent guardsman came and pushed bread and hard cheese and a flagon of water through the bars for him, he was wet, cold and shivering.

He had not been fed since the day before, so he took the food and wolfed it down. Since he had been captured, there had been no mistreatment or starvation, but even so, when you were imprisoned, it paid to think that each meal was a blessing. When food came, he ate it, whatever it was.

He was stuffing the last hunk of bread into his mouth when a horse galloped past and came to a sliding halt just a dozen paces from his stockade. Ned looked up and frowned as the rider dismounted in a hurry and called out, “Where is the Prince? I must speak with him!”  

Curiosity piqued, Ned climbed to his feet and went to the bars, the better to see what was happening. Prince Rhaegar’s war pavilion was within clear sight, a large black and red oilcloth structure surrounded by half a dozen men-at-arms. At first, there was silence, and then the flap was lifted and the Prince emerged from within. He was dressed all in black, as Ned had noticed seemed to be his way, with the topmost section of his silvery hair tied back, and he bore the marks of injuries sustained in battle. One of his indigo eyes was well and truly blacked and partly closed with inflammation, while his lower lip was split, swollen and scabbing over. As he moved to meet the rider, Ned saw that he was limping too. He wore no coronet or adornment to show his status other than the ruby-encrusted dragon pin which secured his cloak about his shoulders. A young dark-haired boy Ned presumed was the Prince’s squire followed him out of the pavilion, and then came Ser Barristan Selmy and another, Ser Richard Lonmouth, whom Ned recalled from the fateful tourney at Harrenhal.

“My Prince,” said the rider, and immediately sank to his knee. Rhaegar allowed the man no more than a moment of deference before he waved him to standing once again.

“Rise,” he said. “What is it, friend?”

The rider hesitated. He was a lean, gangling fellow of middle to late years, standing half a head taller than the Prince, and wore a tunic blazoned with a white lamb holding a goblet, black boots and gloves, and a gold cloak. Ned realised then that he was looking at Manly Stokeworth, the captain of the City Watch of King’s Landing. “Your Grace, it pains me to tell you, but I bring grievous news from the capital.”

Rhaegar’s face, which had been solemn unto now, darkened with a frown. “Tell me,” he commanded.

Stokeworth glanced at Ser Barristan and Lonmouth, then began, “There has been an incident, Your Grace. Your father was in the throne room holding court with some of his advisors. He had been told the news of your victory and he was…” Stokeworth’s voice trailed away into reluctance. He cleared his throat, as if waiting for Rhaegar to cut him off, but when the Prince remained silent, then he began again. “He was having one of his manic moments, screaming and laughing alternately, chanting your name. He called for Stannis and Renly Baratheon’s heads and said he would have Storm’s End burnt to a cinder. He bid that demon Rossart to ready the wildfire and travel to meet with the lords Tyrell and Redwyne at the Storm’s End siege. Accept no surrender, he said, and burn them all. Those were his words, Your Grace, I swear it.”

Rhaegar shook his head. “Burn them all? That was truly what he said?”

“It was.”

The Prince closed his eyes and sighed, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he processed the news. Ned watched Rhaegar’s reaction, and recalled the private words Jon Arryn had shared with Robert and him before Harrenhal about Rhaegar’s wish to meet with the high lords to discuss removing his father from power. When the King had unexpectedly shown his face at Harrenhal, those plans had been abandoned and no meeting had gone ahead. Instead, the rumours had been replaced with new ones and the scandal of the crown of blue winter roses had begun. “Dear Gods…” The Prince’s voice was tight. His eyes found Stokeworth’s. “But there is more, isn’t there?”

“There is more, Your Grace,” confirmed Stokeworth. “As Rossart left to begin his task – I am sorry, Your Grace, truly sorry – Jaime Lannister drew his sword and plunged it through the King’s back and into his heart.”

There was a terrible, long silence. Neither Rhaegar nor Stokeworth, nor any of the men who stood around them, moved. Even Ned found himself frozen to the spot, staring with disbelief. _Jaime Lannister?_ Finally, Rhaegar said, “My father is dead then.” His voice was dulled by what seemed like a sense of hopeless inevitability.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Stokeworth paused, frowning. “He died quickly, though. I do not believe he was in any lasting pain.”

“That is a small blessing then… Where is Ser Jaime?”

“He fled the capital and was last seen riding for Casterly Rock. I sent men after him, but Lord Tywin--”

“Leave Lord Tywin to me, my friend,” said Rhaegar curtly, looking up with cold eyes. “It is best that you do not embroil yourself in anything to do with him. I will summon him to meet with me when we return to King’s Landing.”

Behind the bars of his stockade, Ned frowned. _Jaime Lannister has killed the King._ Harrenhal filled his thoughts again as he remembered the apparently earnest, golden-haired boy who had knelt before Aerys and sworn his vows. Ser Gerold Hightower had wrapped the snowy white cloak of the Kingsguard around Jaime’s shoulders, and Jaime had stood and flushed and looked every inch the star struck youth. Of course the boy was a Lannister, and Ned’s opinion of Lord Tywin was cynical at best, but the news that he had forsaken his vows in such a way smelled of treachery more than it did of dishonour. And Rhaegar’s desire to deal with Tywin himself did nothing but add to Ned’s suspicion; he was certain this was not as simple as it appeared.   

“But that is still not all, is it?” continued Rhaegar, and Ned’s eyes flicked back to the conversation playing out before him. “Your face tells me that much.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Tell it then, my lord,” instructed the Prince.

Stokeworth looked reluctant a moment. “There has been a fire in King’s Landing… a wildfire. Whether it was set alight on purpose or by accident is yet unclear, but in the chaos that ensued after your father was murdered, the screams began and soon the flames had engulfed the whole of Maegor’s Holdfast. The entire structure went up in green flame in a matter of moments and was razed to the ground before it could be extinguished.”

Ned shifted forwards as much as he dared, his eyes fixed on Rhaegar’s face. “I managed to escape, but I am afraid many were not so fortunate… The death toll was significant, and it grieves me to say, but your wife and children are dead, Your Grace. They perished in the wildfire blaze.”

The colour drained away from the Prince’s face. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the only sound that came out was a half-choked gasp. His legs seemed to turn to water beneath him, and then in an instant, Rhaegar Targaryen was human again, and he was on the ground, on his knees, and his body had crumpled away. “Oh Gods,” he breathed. He covered his face with his hands and his back shook with a silent, wracking sob.  

Ned looked away, feeling as if he were intruding and once again uncertain about his judgement of Rhaegar. Despite Robert’s unwavering hatred for the Prince, Ned’s opinion of him had long been conflicted. He liked simplicity in people, but Rhaegar Targaryen was anything but simple. For one, there were so many who spoke well of him, and there had to be at least _something_ in their words. Men did not tend to do that for the undeserving unless they had blades pressed to their throats or coin tinkling in their purses and it seemed an impossible thing to threaten or buy an entire realm.

But since he had been captured, the Prince had not deigned to speak to him and the cynical part of Ned’s heart had begun to grow. He had been raised with the belief that you should look a man in the eye before you sentenced him. It was the honourable thing to do. Robert would have argued that Rhaegar Targaryen had shit for honour and not been surprised by the continued silence, but for Ned it seemed at odds with a man who was praised by lords and smallfolk alike. The sight of the Prince upon his knees, struck down with grief, was just another confusing part of the puzzle.  

His thoughts turned to his own lady wife, Catelyn, and the child he knew she carried – how would he feel if news came to him that they had perished? The answer, Ned knew instinctively, was distraught. The last he had heard from her had been a letter she had sent him just a week before the battle. It had been a little awkward-sounding, but the kindness in Catelyn’s words had warmed him, reminding him that she was well and wishing for his safe return. He had read it over several times before secreting it inside his gambeson.

He wished he had the letter now so he could have read it again. But when the circle of Royalist soldiers had surrounded him at the end of the battle, his gambeson had been stripped off him along with his armour, and the letter had fallen out. One of the men had picked it up from the ground and read it mockingly aloud, before snorting that he wouldn’t be needing such romantic tripe in the Black Cells and throwing the paper away into the wind. That had hurt. A piece of folded parchment posed no threat. It was true that in war there was no room for sentimentality, but that did not mean that hard objectivity should stoop to unnecessary cruelty. Even after they had bound and chained him and every other emotion had turned to dejection, the thought of that letter still had the power to stir him to anger.  

While Ned had been thinking, a small crowd of men had gathered around the Prince and a shocked silence had descended. Ser Barristan Selmy and Richard Lonmouth were helping Rhaegar to his feet and Ned watched as they bundled him back into his pavilion. Manly Stokeworth followed them, and then one by one, the crowd began to melt away.

Ned watched Rhaegar’s pavilion for a while, then turned and sank down onto his haunches. It had stopped raining, but there was a still a swirling damp mist in the air that lingered between the pavilions and tents, shifting and sliding about like a slowly moving ship. For the first time since the dead of night, Ned realised how cold he was, and he thrust his hands into the pockets of his breeches. But in his head, it was burning. He had only been inside the Red Keep once in his life, but he could remember the thick stone walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, surrounded by a dry moat lined with iron spikes the size of greatswords. He could barely imagine a fire hot enough to damage it, let alone burn it to the ground, as Manly Stokeworth had claimed.

_Lyanna._

Ned jerked upright at the sudden thought of his sister and felt something clutch a hold of his heart. Had she been in Maegor’s along with Princess Elia and Rhaegar’s children? He had no idea. He scrambled to his feet again and grasped the bars of his stockade. There was nobody within sight to ask, save for the men-at-arms stationed outside the Prince’s pavilion, so he called out, “Guards, a word with one of you!”

The two men standing nearest looked in his direction, but only one of them, a broad man in mail and plate, responded. “What is it, traitor?”

“Please… I must needs speak to the Prince.”

The guard left his station and marched up to the stockade. He jabbed the point of the halberd he held towards Ned’s face and scoffed, “You do not have the right to demand anything, Stark. You are a prisoner.”

Ned backed away. “I know that, but please – I beg you – pass on my request to Prince Rhaegar. It is important.”

It seemed that the sneer upon the guard’s face was about to break into an outright laugh, but then there was movement behind and he turned sharply. The flap on the Prince’s pavilion had lifted and Ser Barristan Selmy was emerging, followed by Ser Richard Lonmouth. Selmy paused as he saw only one man standing guard outside the pavilion. “What are you doing away from your station?” he demanded. “You were ordered to stand guard outside the Prince’s pavilion and remain there until you were relieved.”

“My lord, I was talking to the prisoner. He wanted to speak with Prince Rhaegar.”

“Lord Stark?” Ser Barristan looked over to where Ned was chained and frowned, but there was sympathy in his eyes. Ned stepped up to the bars again.

“Ser Barristan.”

With measured strides Ser Barristan walked over to the stockade and stood a few paces from it, his arms folded across his chest. He tilted his head on one side and regarded Ned coolly. He was of an age with Lord Rickard, but where Ned’s father had often seemed older than his years, in both mind and body, Barristan Selmy had worn well. His shoulder-length hair was streaked with grey, but his physique was as lithe and muscular as that of a man ten years his junior. Ned knew little of him personally, but his reputation was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. 

“The Prince is indisposed at present,” Ser Barristan told him. “He has received some grievous news. But say what you will to me and I will pass on your message when it is more appropriate to do so.”

Relief washed over Ned. “My thanks, Ser Barristan. I had heard you were an honourable man.”

“What is it you wish the Prince to hear, Lord Stark?”

“I wish only to hear news of my sister Lyanna, my lord. I have learned about the wildfire in Maegor’s and I fear for her. I know it was Prince Rhaegar who took my sister from Winterfell and I do not know where she is, whether he took her to King’s Landing or elsewhere.”

Ser Barristan gave a small hum of understanding. “You want to know if your sister lives or not.”

“Yes.”

“I am afraid I cannot answer your question myself, my lord, as I know nothing of Lady Lyanna. The Prince has ordered that we break camp and ride for the capital as soon as possible, but when I see him next, I will ask him if he will give you a moment of his time.”  Before he turned and walked away, he added, “I hope you learn your sister is safe and well, my lord.”

Ned watched the white cloak flowing from Ser Barristan’s shoulders as he walked away and murmured to himself, “As do I.”

Over the next few hours, the camp was dismantled around him. Men moved about rolling up oilcloth pavilions, hefting timber stakes and pulling out iron pegs. The Prince’s pavilion was the last to come down, and it was only then that Rhaegar showed his face. He looked tired, but as he slipped out from his pavilion, he glanced over to where Ned was imprisoned. There was a moment of hesitation and then he started towards the stockade.

“Lord Stark,” said the Prince when he stood before him. His tone was emotionless; not steely, or hard, but rather drained of all feeling and sentiment. “You wished to speak with me.”  

Ned saw how Rhaegar’s eyes were red-rimmed and there seemed to be the weight of many cares upon his shoulders, a weight that Ned was familiar with now that he was a prisoner with an uncertain future. The bars of his stockade marked the distance between them, but Ned felt some measure of sympathy for Rhaegar then. He did not seem like the monster his father had been, or the black-hearted terror Robert had made him out to be. “I am sorry for your loss, Your Grace.”

“My loss, yes,” he replied distantly, looking away and blinking as if tears were about to come again. Ned said nothing for a moment, giving the Prince chance to compose himself. “I have heard enough ill news to last a lifetime in the last few hours.” A leaden sigh escaped him. “But I will spend my grief when I am alone and unburdened from my duties… What is it, my lord?”

“My sister,” began Ned, “was she in King’s Landing with your wife and children? Did she also die in the blaze?”

The mention of Lyanna made Rhaegar visibly stiffen. Like two opponents weighing one another up, their eyes met – Ned wondered if mayhaps the Prince was deciding how much to say to him, or whether to answer him at all. “Your sister was not in the capital,” he said. “I kept her away from King’s Landing, fearing what would happen if we lost at the Trident. In troubled times, it does not do to keep all of the things that are precious to you in one place. Oh, how I tried to divide my clutch still further, but my father forbade it, and look what it has brought me.” Rhaegar shook his head and then continued, “But you do not need to hear of my woes, for you must surely have enough of your own. Be assured, though, that a dragon guards his nest and all that is in it, Lord Stark.”

There was a quiet threat in those words, Ned realised, and for a moment he bristled. “And wolves are creatures of the pack, Your Grace. They fall back on one another in times of need. Where is Lyanna? Is she alone?”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened at Ned’s words, but he did not rise to the bait. Instead, he stayed perfectly still, tense as a whipcord, and replied, “No, she is not alone. She has familiar faces with her and she is safe. I will send for her soon enough.”

There was no answer to where she was. Ned considered repeating that part of his question, but decided that mayhaps that would not be wise. The Prince did not look as if he enjoyed being outdone. “Does she know of what was done to our father and brother?”

“She knows,” said Rhaegar, “and she has grieved. But she does not blame me.” He paused. “Do _you_ blame me, my lord?”

Ned did not really know how to answer that and so he looked away, frowning. He did not blame Rhaegar for his father’s death, or for Brandon’s – that had been Aerys’ doing – but he could not deny that it had been Rhaegar’s actions that had started this whole cascade of events. Or was that in itself a misconception? Did Ned really believe what Robert had claimed – that Lyanna had been kidnapped against her will – or was it more complicated than that? “I do not know,” he admitted. “But I know that you took my sister, and that was the crime that began all of this.”

“I can see that you have much to ask your sister, Lord Stark. When we reach the capital, and I have sent for her, I will let her speak with you. Mayhaps then you can truly ascribe blame… or not…” His voice was cold and dead, but even Ned could see the anger beneath it. He turned and walked away, leaving Ned to wade through a more confusing mire of thoughts than he had ever known. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the really great response to the first chapter of this. I hope the second one has been satisfying too! I'm doing my best to update as often as I can, but this is super complex and I want to get it right too, so your patience is appreciated! :)


	3. LYANNA - Traitors to The Crown Must Die

Lyanna Stark had never been to King’s Landing. In her head, she had imagined it a glorious, bright place, filled with smiling inhabitants glad to be residing alongside the dragon kings. But as she and her three companions rode up the Kingsroad and towards the crossing point on the Blackwater Rush, it became very clear that this was a belief far from accurate.

A ramshackle array of dwellings had begun near where the Roseroad had joined the Kingsroad. There were no meadows or sunlit streets, just endless hovels made from rough-hewn timber or wattle and daub. As they came nearer to the city, the air grew thick with stench – smoke and soot and sewage, finished off with the sharp stink of fish guts. Through the fog she could just make out the great walls of the city, but they may as well have been treading a cart track towards some isolated holdfast. The horses waded through a cloying red mud the colour of blood and they had to weave their way through the animals that roamed freely between the buildings. There were scraggly chickens, ducks, and the occasional pig or goat alongside heaps of dirty-faced children stood about in doorways, who gawped at them as they rode past.

An open sewer ran alongside the Kingsroad, and Lyanna gasped to see a pair of boys playing idly in its filth. Her companions, however, did not seem to see the horrors and kept their horses moving forwards. In front of her, Ser Gerold Hightower’s white cloak was spattered with mud and his grey courser was brown up to her hocks. He had led the entire way, with Ser Arthur Dayne alongside her and Ser Oswell Whent bringing up the rear. When Rhaegar had first summoned the three Kingsguard knights to the Tower of Joy, their mere presence had made her nervous, reminding her of the terrible possibilities that might well come to pass, but now they were so familiar to her she imagined she would miss them when she was left without them by her side.

It wasn’t long before the muddy track became a cobbled street and the hovels became houses, some several stories high, and the sewer disappeared underground. The people were still dirty, though, but now they did not stop and stare and instead were busy with tasks. This close to the river, everything seemed to have something to do with fishing – men unloaded baskets of silvery fish from boats while others hawked their catches from hand barrows. They passed a shrimp seller shouting from his stall, paper bags of pale shrimps lined up in front of him, and then an old woman sitting by the roadside mending nets with a bone needle.

At the edge of the Blackwater Rush, the banks were crowded with quays and docks and a constant stream of cargo was unloaded – silks, spices, exotic fruits, seafood and barrels of wine and mead. The fog was thickest here, and seemed like a grey wall through which figures appeared and disappeared; above the river it moved like something almost alive, rolling downstream and out towards the bay where the vague shapes of ghost ships skulked and drifted. Ser Gerold reined up his mount, dismounted and came to her side. “My lady,” he said. “We are at the ferry crossing. You must needs dismount so we can all be taken across the river.”

Lyanna nodded and did as she was bid. For the first time in her life, she was truly saddle-sore, having ridden without any real break for the last four days. Once they had joined the Roseroad, they had stopped only to snatch a few hours of sleep each night and then it had been back in the saddle and onwards. Her back ached and as she stretched her spine out, she felt the babe in her belly shift and turn. Instinctively, she placed a hand over the bump. “My lady?” asked Ser Arthur, apprehension lacing through his voice. “Are you well?”

Lyanna almost smiled. Of all the three knights, Ser Arthur had always been the most concerned for her wellbeing, and even after she had told him that his fretting was tiresome, he had continued to look for any sign of poor health, discomfort or pain regardless, so much so that she wondered if he had been ordered to pay her objections no mind. “I am fine, Ser Arthur,” she told him. “The babe is simply moving about.”

He nodded in reply, satisfied, and then turned back to his lord commander, who was already discussing their passage across the river with the ferryman. The crossing over the Blackwater Rush was a flat-bottomed ferry boat big enough for a dozen men or a pair of horses to stand on. The boat was attached to a pair of thick iron chains that spanned the river and the ferryman poled the way across, assisted by a pair of heavy draught horses on each side that paced up and down a furrowed track.

While Ser Gerold was counting out coin for the ferryman, a pair of scraggly boys came and took the reins of both his and Ser Oswell’s horses, then led them onto the ferry. It seemed both animals were used to the crossing, for neither appeared fazed by the unsteady ground beneath their hooves and boarded the ferry without so much as a nicker. Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell then climbed aboard themselves and the ferryman began to pole them across. Lyanna stood at Ser Arthur’s side and watched. With the additional weight of the horses, it took the ferryman a good while to get them to the opposite bank, but once there, they were quickly unloaded and the ferry came back for them.

When they too had made it to the other side, Ser Arthur bid the ferryman a good day and helped her to mount up again. She had been told that on the north bank of the Blackwater Rush, the city stretched as far as the eye could see, but on this day the fog hid all but the few hundred paces in front of them. They rode slowly up a crowded cobbled street towards the Mud Gate. There were a dozen guardsmen standing before it leaning on their spears but when they saw the white cloaks of the Kingsguard knights they straightened instantly to attention.

As they passed underneath the huge gate, the hooves of their horses echoed off the great stone walls in a hollow tattoo. On the city side, the buildings were much tighter packed and some rose to several stories high, their upper limits leaning out and almost touching across the street. There were dozens of forges here, and the clang of their hammers rang in her ears. People still walked beside them, but now it seemed to be that they were moving out of their way as if in deference. She even heard a few voices call out ‘The Kingsguard!’ as they passed.

It was a long climb up Aegon’s High Hill to the Red Keep, but as they climbed the fog thinned until it was nothing but a faint mist through which the late morning sunshine was already trying to break through. “Gods be good!” exclaimed Ser Arthur beside her. “Lord Commander, look!”

Lyanna followed the direction in which his hand was pointing and saw a gap in the skyline above the massive curtain walls of the Red Keep. “I hadn’t truly believed it,” said Ser Gerold, “but it seems it has happened after all.”

They had reined up their horses and all three knights stood a moment in stunned silence.

“Is that where Maegor’s Holdfast was?” she asked. The raven Rhaegar had sent to them at the Tower of Joy had told of the death of King Aerys and the ensuing wildfire that had engulfed Maegor’s Holdfast and burned it to the ground, killing all within including Princess Elia and Rhaegar’s two young children.

“It was, my lady,” Ser Gerold confirmed in a voice heavy with sadness.

The gap in the skyline looked suddenly huge.

“Wildfire is a terrible thing,” explained Ser Arthur. “It burns hotter than fire, green and deadly, and is almost impossible to extinguish. The King had a strange fascination for it; he thought it was a way to make the Seven Kingdoms fear the Targaryens again, now that the dragons were gone. It does not surprise me that some ill thing has become of it. It was only a matter of time.”

“Did Rhaegar know about the wildfire?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, my lady, he knew, and he knew the danger it posed. He told the King that he should not be meddling with it, but the King was like to do as he wished. It was his right.”

Lyanna frowned. “It’s a stupid right,” she said. “No-one should have the right to do everything they wish.”

Her comment was greeted with tense silence, but then Ser Oswell let out a low chuckle. “Many would say you speak truly, my lady, but hundreds of years have passed with kings doing exactly as they please. It is difficult to change something so long established.”

“And it is not our place to question the King,” said Ser Gerold. “We guard him, and that is all.” 

“Even a king should listen to advice. Else how can he know that what he does is wise?” _That was why King Aerys was killed, because he didn’t listen and he did foolish things._ She wanted desperately to say the words out loud, but she knew that Ser Gerold, of all her companions, was the most stoic in his beliefs. Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell were Rhaegar’s friends – Ser Gerold liked him, she was sure of that much, but it was duty to which he was wed. She met his dark eyes and willed him to challenge her, but the White Bull said nothing, kicking his horse onwards.

They passed under the raised portcullis of the Red Keep’s main gatehouse, watched by the dead eyes of three beheaded men, and into a rectangular brick-paved courtyard where their mounts were taken from them. “Where is Rhaegar?” she asked Ser Arthur as he held out his arm for her.

“We will make our way to the Throne Room, my lady. Hopefully we will find him there.”

The Great Hall stood at the far end of the courtyard. Two goldcloaks were positioned outside the massive oak and bronze doors and when they saw the Kingsguard approaching, they bowed their heads and signalled for the doors to be opened. Lyanna still had her arm through Ser Arthur’s, but as they waited for the doors to swing open, she fidgeted. She had not seen Rhaegar since he had left the Tower very nearly two moons ago and just the thought of seeing him again made her heart beat a little faster. One hand crept down to the swell of her belly as she wondered what he would say or do when he saw her, and when he saw how her body had changed.

“Come, my lady,” said Ser Arthur when the doors had been fully opened and they stepped inside.

Lyanna paused a moment in the doorway as she looked within and saw how the Great Hall deserved its name. It was cavernously huge, more than twice the size of the Great Hall at Winterfell, and the dragon skulls Lyanna had heard stories about as a child hung like supernatural watchers from the walls. Dust motes drifted in the shafts of weak sunlight filtering in through the high narrow windows. The hall was empty apart from a dozen or so people gathered near the far end where the Iron Throne sat upon a raised dais, all of whom had turned to see who had entered.

They walked the length of the room in silence. Rhaegar had been talking, but he stopped his conversation as they approached and stood, before descending the steep steps to the floor. His face had been serious and solemn, but when he caught sight of her, he smiled. “We bring Lady Lyanna to you as you bid, Your Grace,” said Ser Gerold.

Rhaegar nodded his thanks to the knight, then came towards her and took her hands in his. “My love,” he said in a soft voice. “Welcome to King’s Landing. How do you fare? I am sorry for your long ride – no doubt you must have been uncomfortable.” He glanced down at her belly and lowered his voice still further. “Both of you.”

Lyanna smiled at his private remark. “I am well… Your Grace.” She had been about to call him by his name, but had realised suddenly that they had an audience.

He seemed to notice her discomfort and afforded a quick glance at the men gathered around him, all of whom immediately seemed to find the floor a very interesting thing. “It is good to see you again,” he said. “The most pleasant thing I have been delivered since I left you last.” His hand threaded through the front sections of her hair, stroking gently along her cheek, then fell away. He turned to another Kingsguard knight standing to his right. “Ser Barristan, please escort my lady to the rooms I have had prepared for her. Ensure she is comfortable and has everything she needs and then afford her some privacy. Stand guard outside her rooms and do not let anyone enter unless they have my express permission to do so. Ser Arthur will relieve you in due course.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar took up her hand and kissed her knuckles, lingering a moment longer than was respectable, his eyes fixed on hers. “I will come to you when I am able, my lady. I have business here first, I am afraid, and I must not neglect it.” He paused, then added in a whisper, “Even though I sorely wish to do so at this moment.”

Lyanna nodded, smiling. “I will be thinking of you,” she whispered back. She turned and took up Ser Barristan’s proffered arm and allowed him to guide her from the Throne Room.

They walked out into the brightening sunlight and Lyanna blinked at the sudden contrast between inside and out. The fog still remained in the lower reaches of the city, but it was clearly thinning with every moment. Ser Barristan led her across the courtyard in silence. “Where are my rooms, Ser Barristan?” she asked after a moment.

“In the Tower of the Hand, my lady. With Maegor’s gone, it was there or the Maidenvault, and Prince Rhaegar thought it spoke ill to place you in there.”

Lyanna chuffed softly. “Yes, it might not have been the wisest choice,” she admitted.

 “The Prince’s rooms are next to yours, though, my lady. He insisted on that.” There was a pause of a few moments, then Ser Barristan added, “It may interest you to know that your brother Eddard was brought to King’s Landing just three days ago.”

They had reached the oaken doors of the Tower of the Hand and Ser Barristan pushed them open and stood aside to allow her entrance. She stopped in the doorway, frowning as her mind filled with thoughts of her brother. “Ned?” She had feared the worst for him, but the raven Rhaegar had sent had spoken of his capture and those fears had eased somewhat by the knowledge that at least he was alive and well. It would be but a little thing to convince Rhaegar to release him. “Where is he?”

“In the Black Cells, my lady, as befits a traitor to the crown.”

_A traitor to the crown?_ The words sounded as harsh as a whiplash and Lyanna started. “He’s…” she began, but then stopped herself. Ned _was_ a traitor. He had risen in rebellion along with Robert Baratheon and the Lords Arryn and Tully to fight against the Mad King, and by extension, Rhaegar. She felt the blood drain away from her face and her heart went cold as she imagined what this might mean. King Aerys had burned her father alive and murdered Brandon as he tried to save him. She did not think Rhaegar capable of such a cruelty, but she could not deny the truth – her brother was a traitor, and the punishment for traitors had been the same for three hundred years, since Aegon the Conqueror had forged the Iron Throne from the swords of his vanquished opponents. She thought of the three heads she had seen upon spikes above the gatehouse and felt sick.

“I am sorry, I thought you understood.” Ser Barristan seemed apologetic and almost embarrassed by the effect of his words upon her.

She shook her head. “I hadn’t… realised…” Her voice trailed away, then she looked up at the Kingsguard knight. “What will become of him?”

“That is for Prince Rhaegar to decide, my lady. He rules now. But I would imagine he will wish to see the rebel lords punished, to give a show of strength and make sure such things do not happen again.”

“But Ned--” she began.

“You will need to speak to the Prince if you wish to sway his decision, my lady. I am afraid I cannot help you.” He sighed and started up the steps before them.

Lyanna stood stock still a moment, reeling, then mechanically followed him. _Rhaegar will listen to me_ , she thought. But what then? It seemed unlikely that he would simply restore Ned to his rightful seat in Winterfell – something must needs become of all this, and Lyanna could not shake the feeling that it would not be pleasant.

Ser Barristan held open the door to a spacious room and announced, “These are your rooms, my lady. I hope you find them comfortable. I believe the girls who have been chosen to be your handmaids have laid out fresh garb for you and I am sure a meal will be on its way. If you have need of anything--”

“I will ask,” she finished. She offered him a small, distracted smile and stepped into the room. It was simply furnished, with lime washed walls and high windows with shutters made of waxed wood. A large bed dominated, freshly made with white sheets and an ornate embroidered throw, and she could see doors leading off to other rooms. “Thank you, Ser Barristan.”

The knight bowed his head and took his leave, closing the door behind him. For a moment, she stood and stared about the room, not really seeing anything of its contents, then went to the window. The shutters were pulled back and she parted the voile drapes and looked out towards where the city was spread-eagled in the distance, looming and massive. She wondered where Ned was. She knew little of the Red Keep, other than the names of the most well-known parts – the Throne Room, Maegor’s Holdfast, the Maidenvault and the White Sword Tower. She had heard of Traitors’ Walk and the Dungeons too, but had no idea where they were. Ser Barristan had said Ned was in the Black Cells and Lyanna knew from her lessons that these were the cells reserved solely for the most terrible of criminals, traitors and murderers and drew their name from the depth of darkness within them once the great wooden doors were closed.

“Oh _Ned_ ,” she sighed aloud as she thought of him sitting alone in the pitch black. They had both lost their father and brother, but Ned had lost his friend and might still lose his own life. It was enough to make her stomach roil again.

She turned away from the window and went to sit on the edge of the bed. When Rhaegar came to her, she would ask him about her brother and if needs be, she would beg for him to be released from such a vile place. If nothing else, she could surely achieve that. She lay back on the bed and rubbed her belly, feeling the child within shift at her touch.

She must have drifted to sleep for it was beginning to grow dark when she heard a click and sat up from the bed to see a familiar shape slip inside and shut the door behind him. Rhaegar’s expression was weary as he came towards her, and she wondered if he had been tried beyond the limits of his normally endless patience. The lacing at the front of his black doublet had been loosened and the shirt beneath it opened slightly. She was about to open her mouth and say something when he took her face in his hands and kissed her.

“Mmm…” he sighed against her mouth. “How I have longed to do that!”

Lyanna grinned. The sensation of his lips on hers made her whole body lurch. It had been a long few months without him and she had missed him. But until she had rid her mind of its troubling thoughts, she could not allow herself to let go. Too much had happened for such hedonism as she had practised in running to him in the first place.

He made to kiss her again but she pulled back. “There’s something I need to talk to you about,” she said.

He did not seem to hear her at first, for he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to her neck, breathing in deep and then kissing gently along her collarbone. “Rhaegar…” She gave him a little shove and he broke away with a disappointed sigh. He adjusted his position on the bed and looked at her like a child deprived of a sweetmeat.

“What is it, my love?”

Now that she had his attention she wasn’t quite sure how to say what she needed to say, and for a moment, she foundered. He tilted his head questioningly at her. She swallowed. “I want to talk about my brother, who I have learned is locked away in the black cells.”

Rhaegar’s eyes had been clouded, but at her words, they cleared and focused and his face hardened. “Your brother… Eddard Stark of Winterfell.”

“Yes.”

“Traitor and rebel.”

“No!” Lyanna frowned. “I mean… yes… but, no! He is my brother!”

Rhaegar stood and walked to the window, saying nothing. A breath of breeze lifted the voile curtains and blew them into the room. Lyanna stared at him, torn between continuing her argument and waiting for him to respond. She chose to wait. “Your brother and Robert Baratheon rose against the crown. They fought and killed men who had sworn their swords to my house, to the crown.”

“The same is true in reverse. Your men killed my brother’s bannermen… Gods be good, _you_ killed the man he had been raised with – his closest friend. Robert Baratheon is dead. Is that not enough?”

He sighed and turned back to her. “Lya, my love, I know what you would ask of me, but I cannot give you it.” He paused. “I would give you the world. But not this. Your brother is a traitor and traitors must be punished.”

A sense of desperation seized her at his uncompromising tone. She shook her head slowly. “But your father… he… he killed Brandon, and my father. He _murdered_ them. You can’t… you can’t have Ned killed too.” The tears were coming thick and fast now and she could taste them salty in her mouth. She got up from the bed and went to him, fisting her hand and laying it on his chest. “You can’t. I don’t know what I’d do.”

Rhaegar looked down at her hand, then drew back and suddenly she felt like he was a thousand leagues away again. His eyes, the same eyes that had once seemed to look right into her soul, were now hard and cold and distant. “Traitors to the crown must die.”

“Die? No… Rhaegar, please…” she begged. “Do not do him harm. I couldn’t bear it. There must be some other way.”

“I do not know that there is.”

“There _must_ be!” She refused to accept his answer. She could not accept it. _Men are so weak sometimes,_ she thought angrily, _so wedded to what they thought ought to happen that they never dare to think differently._

She wiped the tears from her eyes and drew herself up, her anger burning inside her like an inferno. She gritted her teeth. “You said you loved me, did you not?” Her eyes fixed on his. She hated the thought of using love to bind and bribe, but right now she did not see another choice. “If you loved me you would try to think of another way. He is my brother and I love him.”

Rhaegar looked as if she had slapped him. For a moment, Lyanna considered if she had been too cruel, too harsh, too childish, but then she remembered what was at stake and she steeled herself against the mute appeal in his eyes. “Lya…” he started, pained.

“No,” she told him. “Think of another way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who is reading and commenting and kudosing! It's all appreciated more than I can say. :)


	4. EDDARD - Kept and Bound

EDDARD – Kept and Bound

 

The darkness was thick. It was all around him, enveloping him like the arms of a malevolent stranger, crushing him. It had no depth, colour or texture – it was just darkness, and more darkness, and it seemed to stretch on forever. In the beginning, he had walked the perimeter of his cell, feeling at the walls, his fingers trailing over the cold, flaking stones, searching for something, anything, but finding only dust and dirt. There was no way out. The iron manacles at his ankles may as well have not been there.

The cell was no more than four foot square; it was impossible for Ned to lie down unless he stretched himself diagonally. There was no bed, not even a shelf on which to sleep, nothing but the hard, damp floor. There was dirty straw spread about, but it stank of urine and shit and there was barely enough of it to make any difference. The Gods only knew what was living in it.

He quickly gave up trying to judge whether it was night or day or how long it had been since they had dragged him down the stone steps and thrown him in here. It was more than days, he knew, but mayhaps less than a week. Even that was guesswork though. They came with food and water from time to time – bread and salt beef mostly, sometimes with an onion or an apple. It was hardly a feast, but it told him something at least; Rhaegar did not wish for him to starve. When his meals were delivered, he tried to see something in the glare of the torchlight. But his eyes were so accustomed to the darkness that when the light came in the doorway, it seemed brighter than staring into the sun and he could see little of consequence. The gaoler was alternately a short balding man with a sniffle or a hulking giant with a pock-marked face and a vicious kick, but neither of them would speak with him, no matter how he pleaded.

He slept to pass the time, for there was little else to do. Sometimes when he woke, he half imagined that all that had happened had been nothing more than a dream, a terrible nightmare that he could forget just as soon as he rose. But it was never long before the truth sank into him like Rhaegar’s sword had sunk into Robert’s chest – he was a prisoner, rotting in this godforsaken pit of darkness, while a thousand leagues away, his beautiful young wife grew heavy with his child.

It was enough to make him weep, but it seemed the pain was too great for even tears to come, and instead he hunkered down on the stinking ground and cursed himself.

Alone with his thoughts, he wondered if anyone even knew he was here. Had Rhaegar told Lyanna where he was? Did Catelyn know? Benjen? Was anyone trying to help? When he tried to ask questions, the gaoler simply grunted and kicked or spit at him, calling ‘traitor’ as he slammed shut the door.

Traitor. The very word made him want to cry out into the darkness. When Jon Arryn had first called him into the solar at the Eyrie, Ned had considered the possibility of the outcome being unfavourable. Such a thing had not crossed Robert’s mind, of course, but Ned was always the measured one, the one who thought things through and planned and envisioned. Even then, ‘traitor’ had seemed such a distant concept, almost out of reach in its unfamiliarity. Ned Stark was an honourable man, and honourable men did not become traitors.

Yet here he was, buried beneath the capital city and charged with high treason, and it mattered not that he believed his cause to be honourable.

He could not say that he had not known the penalties either. Jon Arryn had spelled them out to both he and Robert in clear terms and he could still hear his voice now, hard and uncompromising. _If we win, we will choose the path forward, but if we lose, I fear our fate is certain._

Death was that certainty. Rhaegar would claim the throne, that much was clear, and once he had done so, he would need to crush the rebellion to strengthen his position. Executing the leaders of the rebel armies would surely be his most likely move. Ned could expect nothing less.

His thoughts turned back to his lady wife, and to the child she carried. If he was put to death, Catelyn would become a widow before she had been married a year, and the mother of a child whose father had been executed for treason. Where did that leave her? His child’s rightful inheritance would of course be Winterfell and the North, but would Rhaegar allow his son or daughter that right? As a new-made King, he would need to have someone to rule the North, someone he could mould and shape to fit his new regime, who would keep the Stark bannermen from rising up again, and who better than a babe in arms?

In the darkness, he clung onto this fragile hope, and tried to let it bring him peace.

It was the lack of knowledge that was worst of all. He would have given anything to hear even a snippet of news, but the not knowing was excruciating. All it did was let his thoughts spiral away into all kinds of horrific imaginings. He wondered how long Brandon had been down here before they had dragged him before the Mad King and made him watch as their father was burned alive. Had it been days? A week? Ned could not imagine his hot-headed brother sitting in silent endurance of his confinement. Brandon would have paced and cursed, begged and yelled, long into the night before he would have accepted his fate.   

So, when the gaoler came again with his food and water, Ned swept his sense of honour away and went to his knees and begged. “Please, if you will not tell me news, I must needs speak with my sister. She is Lyanna Stark of Winterfell and she is with Prince Rhaegar. He said he would send her to me.” He stared up beseechingly at the unmoving, shadowy face of the gaoler. “Please,” he repeated.

“Shut it,” said the man in a gruff tone. “You do not get to ask for anything, traitor.”

Ned sank away as he set down the platter and flagon of water near the door and turned away. There was the briefest of moments when Ned considered if he might be able to overwhelm the gaoler and fight his way out of the cell, but what then? Where would he go? The Red Keep would be swarming with guards and he was not like to blend into the crowds in manacles. They would be on him in a heartbeat and the recompense would doubtless be terrible.   

He ate the food and drank some of the water, then with a sigh lay back down on the ground and closed his eyes. He was half asleep again when there came the clanking of the key in the lock and then a quiet voice he had not heard in almost a year echoed off the stone walls. “Leave us,” it said. “I would speak with him alone.”

The door creaked open and the sudden torchlight blinded him, yet even in its glare, he could see her there before him, her dark hair loose around her shoulders and her eyes grey as a morning mist. “Lya,” he breathed. “You came.”

She did not look at him. To the guardsman, she said, “Place the torch in the sconce before you go.”

The guard did as he was bid.

Ned scrambled to his feet. “Lya,” he said again, and this time she looked at him, a gentle smile on her face. In the orange glow of the torch, she was even more beautiful than she had been when he had last seen her back in Winterfell. She looked older, like a woman grown, with a woman’s body and… Ned stopped. There was a clear and obvious swelling to her belly, visible even beneath the thick damask of her dress. She was with child. He couldn’t help the gasp that slipped out. “Gods be good…” he uttered.

Lyanna’s face darkened and her smile vanished. “I have not come here to listen to your judgement, Ned. Things are what they are.”

He stared. His sister was alive; she was well and apparently unharmed. Surely that was what he should be thinking of and thanking the gods for? But no… instead he was reeling, his mind filled with conflicting thoughts. He remembered the letter arriving from his father in Winterfell explaining that Lyanna had gone. It had been brief and to the point – she was gone, it had said, with no sign or trace of struggle. Yet at the time, Ned had thought that strange. Even had she been taken by surprise, Lyanna would never have gone quietly. Now, he wondered if mayhaps his suspicions had been proven correct.

“It is Rhaegar’s?”

“Of course.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her tone was angry. “I have heard the story Robert wove. If he were not already dead, I would kill him myself, for the slight to my honour if nothing else.”

Ned pursed his lips. He was angry now too; the mention of Robert had stirred the bitterness deep within him. “Your honour? Robert was _fighting_ for your honour.”

“Was he?” Lyanna replied icily. “I thought he was fighting to win the crown? And even if he was fighting for my honour, did he think that turning me into some poor little victim would please me? No, Robert simply wanted to protect his own reputation. My honour did not truly concern him.”

An uncomfortable, sharp silence filled the cell when she finished. “Robert loved you,” said Ned. There was something almost painful in the words as he spoke them, a last defence of his friend in the face of defiant opposition.

“Robert loved who he thought I was. He barely even knew me.”

“And Rhaegar Targaryen did?”  

It looked for a moment like Lyanna was going to respond in anger once again, mayhaps even hit him, but then she sighed and turned away. Ned squinted in the torchlight, trying to read something in the set of her shoulders or her hands as they hung at her sides, but there was nothing. “He didn’t take me,” she said at length, turning around again. “I went to him.”

Ned stared. “What?”

Shaking her head, Lyanna rounded on him, her eyes flashing. “Why is that so difficult to understand? Ohh, it makes me so angry!” She mocked, “How can the little girl think for herself? How can she know what she wants? She is only a girl! A _girl_.” She blew a frustrated breath out through her teeth. “Ned, I went because I made a choice. _I_ chose. Not Father, or Brandon, or you, or any other damned person – _me_. That he helped me shows only that his heart is good.”

“He _helped_ you?” Ned could hear the astonishment in his own voice.

“Yes. You think that this is such a sudden thing, but you are wrong. We met at Harrenhal, and he was kind to me. More than kind, really… without him I would not be standing here today. And, yes, I was attracted to him, as he was to me. It was… infatuation at first… for both of us, but it grew to something more, something worth taking a risk for. I sent a raven to him telling him what I was doing, and he met me on the Kingsroad.” She sighed. “He never questioned me, never tried to make me change my mind. He just asked me if I was sure, and when I said I was then we rode for Dorne. I didn’t want to go home because I knew nothing would have changed and Father would still insist that I marry Robert.”

At first, Ned could not believe what he was hearing. But then suddenly he found himself realising that mayhaps he had been just as guilty of the crimes Lyanna was so furious about as Lord Rickard and Brandon. He had always simply assumed that Lyanna would do her duty – after all, it was the honourable thing. The idea that she might run away from it had never crossed his mind. “You really hated him that much?” he asked in amazement.

“Hated? No… I never hated him. Not truly. What I hated was that someone was deciding for me. I did not want that. I wanted the mastery, not them.”

“Why Dorne?” he asked. “It is so far from home…”

“In Dorne, women are in possession of their freedom,” Lyanna said simply. “They can choose their husbands, their paramours. They are not ruled by their fathers entirely. It seemed… appropriate. And there, amidst a hundred thousand people with their own lovers and paramours, we could be together.”

Lyanna turned away again and walked to the closed door of the cell. Her hand reached out and picked a couple of splinters from the wood. She cast them idly to the floor to disappear amongst the dirty straw. “But I did not come here to speak to you of my reasons for doing what I did. I came here to see you, to speak with you before they brought you before the Iron Throne to answer for your crimes.”

“My crimes?” questioned Ned. His head was full of everything Lyanna had told him and it lagged behind a moment.

“You are a traitor, Ned, or had that fact escaped you?”

His lip curled. “No, it had not.”

She sighed. “I have argued for you. But Rhaegar is his own man and he makes his own decisions. He is king now… or he will be when they place a crown atop his head.”

Ned sagged against the flaking wall of the cell. His eyes fixed on his sister, wondering what power she held over the man who would be king. “You have argued for me?”

“Of course,” she said. “You are my brother.”

She may have changed, he thought, but some things always remain the same. “What of it? Rhaegar will not want to let the leaders of the Rebellion go unpunished.”

“No,” she allowed. “But equally, he does not wish to anger or distress me.” She looked squarely at him. “He loves me, Ned. And when you love someone, you will seek to do anything for them.”

She picked up the torch from the sconce in the wall. The flame guttered. She opened the door, and then called for the guard. “I will do my best, I promise you,” she told him as she stood there in the entrance, silhouetted against the brighter, torch-lit passage beyond. “But I cannot say whether it will be enough.”

The guard appeared beside her and took the torch from her. She offered Ned a small smile before turning and walking away, leaving the guard to boot the door shut and turn the key in the lock, plunging him again into darkness.

Ned stayed still for a long moment, listening to the footsteps as they echoed away to nothing. When everything had fallen silent, he sank slowly to the floor. A horrible churning shock was turning his belly to water and his legs felt as weak as if he’d taken a blow to the head. It was like the moment Jon Arryn had told him of his father and Brandon’s deaths, and when he had learned that his mother had been taken by a fever, yet no-one had died. Or had they? The girl he had known back in Winterfell, the one who had crossed swords with him and teased him and defiantly raised her chin to him had died, and in her place was this woman he barely seemed to know.

Lyanna was hard as iron and more fearlessly indomitable than ever. Everything had changed, from the way she carried herself to the tone of her voice, and he found himself thinking if the same was true of him. Had he become a bitter man, shaped by all that had befallen him?

He sighed and buried his face in his hands. His life hung on a knife edge, balanced precariously between the will of a new king to assert his new authority and the passion of a lover for his love. It was something, he told himself. At least it was that. And he was not ready to die. He piled his hope around that and prayed that it would be enough.

Time passed, and then some more. Ned suspected it was days that had gone by, but even that was unclear. When he heard the footsteps coming towards his cell and then the shuffle and click of a gaoler turning the key, he hauled himself to his feet. The door opened and in the doorway stood the short, balding gaoler, and behind him, resplendent in white enamelled scale, was Ser Arthur Dayne. The Dornishman was taller than Ned had remembered. His straight, dark hair was cut shorter than it had been at Harrenhal, and was now mostly tucked behind his ears. His olive-skinned face was all angles and hard lines, and Ned thought suddenly of Ashara Dayne and her compelling beauty. Her brother was handsome too, of that there was no doubt, but his eyes were more honest. “Eddard Stark,” said Dayne. “It seems your luck is turning. Come with me.”

Ned clumsily started forwards. His feet seemed to have turned to blocks of ice with lack of use, and hampered by the manacles at his ankles, his stride was suddenly jerky and unfamiliar. “My luck?” he asked.

“Yes. His Grace has commanded that you and your fellows are to be moved from the Black Cells to the second level.”

Ned frowned, wondering what had prompted the change and whether Lyanna had begun to work her way. The second level of the dungeons was the level reserved for highborn captives, men who had committed crimes but whose station meant they were afforded better treatment than the petty criminals who were confined together on the first level. Ser Arthur turned and gestured for him to walk in front of him but behind the sniffling gaoler, and slowly they made their way along the narrow corridor and then up a twisting flight of steps. Ned could hear the knight’s even breathing and steady, patient footsteps behind him as he climbed the steps with as much dexterity as his manacles allowed.

Finally, they reached an oak door, banded and studded with iron, and nearly three inches thick. The gaoler fished out another key and opened it, then held it while Ned and Ser Arthur came through. “This way,” he instructed and led the way along another, wider corridor. This one was lit generously by torches the entire way along, and there were doors off to his right and left. Small porthole windows barred with iron rods were cut into every one, and at the far end of the hall, another similar window showed a circle of daylight. Half way along, the gaoler stopped and opened up one of the doors.

It swung open to reveal a square cell, half again as big as the one he had been in before. There were fresh reeds on the floor, a stone shelf that would serve as a bed, a pile of blankets and even a chamber-pot. Compared to the Black Cells, it was luxury. There was no shove inside this time, either. Instead, the gaoler simply stood by the door and waited while Ned walked dutifully in. Once within, he turned and asked, “Is this my sister’s doing?”

Ser Arthur met his gaze. “It seems you have inspired loyalty from a lot of people, Lord Stark,” said the knight. “Your wife arrived in King’s Landing this morning and is hiding in an inn just inside the city walls. I am told she plans to request an audience with the Prince.”

“Catelyn is here? In the city?”

“She is, although she does not know that her whereabouts are known.”

“Then how--”

“There are many ears in King’s Landing, my lord,” explained Dayne, “and many mouths. Every king has his loyal servants, just as every lord has his bannermen, and you are not the only one who has inspired loyalty in people.”

His face was expressionless, but Ned could hear the implication in his words – Prince Rhaegar was not without friends. “Tell me… is she well?”

“Your lady wife is great with child, and not long from the birthing bed, but she is well.”

At those words, thoughts of Catelyn packed his mind. She had been nothing but a slip of a thing, a maiden of perfect grace and beauty, when last he had seen her. Trying to imagine her heavy with his child was hard, but Ned found his heart suddenly full at the thought of it. He looked at Ser Arthur. “Please… do not let her come to any harm,” he begged. “I will do anything.”

A small smile crossed Ser Arthur’s face. “I do not believe you have anything to bargain with, I am afraid, but yes, I will endeavour to keep your wife safe, as I keep your sister safe.” He paused and fixed Ned with a steady stare. “It seems you do inspire the queerest kind of loyalty, my lord.” And with that, he turned and left, closing the door behind him and leaving Ned alone once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who comments and leaves kudos. As always the feedback means such a lot and never ceases to amaze me! :)


	5. CATELYN - An Audience with a Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the tardiness in the arrival of this new chapter. I was busy finishing a fic for an exchange and had to sideline this was a little while. Hopefully, updates should be a little more regular from now on!

CATELYN - An Audience with a Prince

 

_…is there no plot_

_To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?_

-           Shakespeare, from Richard II, Act IV Scene I

 

The inn was down a snaking alleyway on the northern side of the city. It was a crouching black-timbered place, huddled between a large merchants’ hall and a dressmaker’s shop, with small leaded windows made of thickened glass and a roof of dirty, moss-covered thatch. But the proprietor was a friendly woman in her later years and the rooms in the attic were clean and pleasant.

They had found board there after they had entered the city late on the previous night and Catelyn had gone straight to her room without bothering with supper. The ride had exhausted her. Her back ached and her shoulders and neck were tight with tension, and all she wanted to do was lay down on a featherbed and sleep until morn. There was no featherbed, though, just a mattress packed with sawdust, but there were plenty of blankets and a comfortable pillow and that would suffice. She stripped off her traveling garb and climbed gratefully into bed.

For a time, she lay on her back, staring up at the stained ceiling, with her hands on her belly. The ride from Riverrun had taken almost a month, and she was now heavy with child. Each day that went past seemed to require a further loosening of the laces on her tunic and the kicking and twisting had slowed as the babe had grown bigger and begun to run out of room. There was now no hiding her condition. She hoped that would also aid her on the morrow when she sought her audience with the Prince – a woman with child was surely harder to refuse.

Her thoughts turned toward her father and her husband. She hoped they were not being mistreated. She had heard stories of the dungeons in the Red Keep, of the horrors that went on in their black depths, and prayed that such things were not being done to them. She closed her eyes and tried to empty her head, until the tiredness in her limbs finally overtook her.

She woke to the sound of a shout coming through the door calling all to break their fast on fresh kippers and hot-baked bread. The room was filled with hazy sunshine and she sat up with a start. She had not moved position all night. _I must have slept like the dead_ , she thought. Slowly, she eased herself to the edge of the bed and sat there a moment, stretching out her spine. Out of the window it was a fine, sunny day, just after dawn, and when she stood and went to look out, she saw people already on the street below – an elderly man sat atop an empty cart being pulled over the cobbles by a sway-backed mule and a pair of boys dressed in little more than rags fought with sticks, to the consternation of a portly woman who was standing in the doorway of the house opposite with hands on hips, shaking her head.

She dressed and then descended to the common room, where she found Ser Desmond and Ser Robyn and the other men tucking into platters of steaming kipper and rolls of spelt bread. The proprietor greeted her and asked her if she would like some food; Catelyn nodded and a plate was thrust into her hand. She sat on the bench next to Ser Desmond and began to eat. “Good morrow, my lady. Did you sleep well?”

“I did, Ser,” replied Catelyn between eager mouthfuls. Having not eaten the night before, she was hungry. “The room was comfortable and warm and I was exhausted.”

“As was I.” He paused, took another bite of his bread roll. “Do you still wish to go to the Red Keep today, my lady?”

“I do. We must not tarry. I do not want my father or my lord husband to suffer any longer than is necessary.”

“Very well,” he agreed. “I shall have the horses brought from the stable and readied.” He wiped the last chunk of bread around his plate, mopping up the juices, and then stood, brushed the crumbs from his tunic, and left. Several of the other men went with him, leaving Catelyn alone with Ser Robyn and one other, a tall man from Riverrun’s household guard she knew as Lew Longshanks. She ate quietly, her mind turning over what she would say to the Prince when she saw him, rehearsing her words in her head again and again. They had learned yesterday that the Prince had taken to hearing petitioners in the hour before midday and Catelyn intended to be one of today’s petitioners. It would take almost an hour to walk up Aegon’s High Hill to the Red Keep and then they would need to be admitted and no doubt questioned as to their purpose. And she did not wish to be the last to be heard, when it would be possible for tiredness or boredom to interfere with the judgement.

She finished her fish and bread just as Ser Desmond returned. She could hear the soft clinking of his mail shirt beneath his tunic as he walked towards her. “My lady,” he said. “We are ready when you are.”

“Thank you,” she replied. She picked up the cup of weak beer she had been given and took a final swallow. She gestured for Ser Desmond to take a seat opposite, which he did, and then added, “My plan is unchanged. We ride for the Red Keep and then take our place in the line of petitioners. I would wish for both of you to accompany me into the Throne Room, but I do not need you to speak. I will talk to the Prince myself. I think it will go better if I appear as unthreatening as possible.”

“I agree that seems the wisest option. I would mislike the thought of you going alone, my lady,” said Ser Robyn. “Can I ask what you intend to say to the Prince?”

“I intend to bargain for their lives,” she said simply. “Rhaegar surely knows that he must needs have peace, and he is not like to get it if he executes the Lords Tully, Stark and Arryn.”

Ser Robyn afforded her a sceptical look. “That much is true, my lady, but he will not want to appear weak in the aftermath of the rebellion.”

“It is a gamble, I know,” admitted Catelyn, “but one I am prepared to take.” She paused and placed one hand on her belly. “One I must take.”

The ride through the city was slow going. The streets were filled with people heading towards the markets, all talking and shouting. Catelyn heard traders yelling prices and giving bellowed instructions, children screaming in play, horses whinnying and the wheels of endless wayns and carts trundling over the stones. A wandering singer with a lute stood in the doorway of an inn with a cloth cap at his feet, valiantly trying to compete over the cacophony. At any other time, Catelyn would have thrown him a coin for his effort, but if she stopped to fumble in her purse, she suspected a pickpocket would take note and use the bustle of the crowds to sneak in close and steal from her. So she kept her head up and kicked her horse onwards.

Aegon’s High Hill was quieter than the city itself. The road that led up it was lined with broadleaved trees that shielded them from the increasing warmth of the sun, but even so, it was a laborious climb. When they finally arrived at the gates of the Red Keep, the portcullis had been raised and the guards were already dealing with a line of petitioners that had formed in anticipation of putting their grievances or claims to Prince Rhaegar. There were rich men and poor men, merchants, lordlings, knights and freeriders all waiting, but Catelyn was the only woman. She tried not to be disconcerted by that.

A stable hand came and took the horses and then they were led across the courtyard to the Throne Room by a pair of guardsmen. Within, it was significantly cooler, although the sun still filtered in through the high, narrow windows and cast squares of bright light upon the stone floor. An ornate Myrish carpet bearing the Targaryen three-headed dragon stretched the length of the room and led up to a raised dais upon which the Iron Throne sat.

It was vastly more intimidating than anything Catelyn had imagined. She knew the story about its forging as well as any, but it was still chilling to see the hundreds of blades that framed it like steel feathers from the wings of a ghastly bird of prey. An involuntary shiver travelled up her spine as she envisioned all those men laying down their swords before Aegon the Conqueror. How much courage must it have taken to do that? More, she supposed, than actually facing the foe in battle.  

There was nobody seated on the throne at present, which was unsurprising considering that it was still some time before the hour when the Prince would arrive to hear petitions. Rows of bench-like seats had been set out near the great bronze doors and the first petitioners had already filled them half way. Catelyn was glad they had chosen to arrive early, for with the way the benches were filling, had they been any later, they might have been sent away.

She gathered up her skirts and sat down and her two knightly bodyguards planted themselves on either side of her. Ser Desmond was sweating profusely but seemed relieved by the cooler air within the Throne Room. Catelyn, on the other hand, would have rather been outside where there were things that could divert her attention. In here, all she could focus on was what was to come. She glanced up at the great dragon skulls that adorned the walls and felt her belly flip. Some of them were so huge she could have stood fully upright in their maws. She hoped once again that she was not walking into the mouth of the dragon by coming here.

They waited and waited and as they did, the hall filled to capacity. When the quiet hum of conversation was finally silenced, Catelyn looked up and saw three Kingsguard enter the Throne Room at the far end, followed by a handful of men whose faces she didn’t recognise, one of whom was dressed in the robes of a maester. She felt Ser Desmond tense beside her as Rhaegar Targaryen walked in.

She had never met the Prince of Dragonstone, and yet she found herself surprised by his look. Tall, lithe and slender of build, he was not so imposing a figure as she had imagined. His long silvery hair was parted in the middle and tucked behind his ears. He was dressed all in black from head to toe, with the merest flash of red from the Targaryen sigil embroidered on the back of his short cape. His face was sombre, and as he cast his eyes over the assembled petitioners, he seemed distracted, as if his mind was elsewhere. He climbed part way up the stone steps to the Iron Throne and then paused, called one of the Kingsguard to him – it was Arthur Dayne, Catelyn realised – and whispered a few words.

Ser Arthur nodded and then Rhaegar resumed his climb. He stopped in front of the throne, still standing, then turned to the petitioners and in a carrying voice said, “Welcome to King’s Landing and to the Red Keep, my lords and…” His eye flickered over to Catelyn. “-and my lady. I am afraid that I have several urgent tasks to deal with today and regrettably I must needs limit the number of petitioners I can speak with. Those who have travelled furthest will, of course, be seen, but it may be that I will ask you to come back again tomorrow, when I will have the luxury of time on my side.” A gentle surge of whispered comments filled the air in response to his words. Rhaegar waited for it to subside before seating himself on the throne.

“My lady,” said Ser Robyn. “You must make your voice heard. We have arguably travelled the furthest of anyone in this room.”

“I know, Ser Robyn, and do not worry. I believe the Prince has already taken note of my presence.”

She glanced toward the dais and caught Rhaegar looking in her direction again.

“Catelyn Tully,” he said, “or should I say, Catelyn Stark…”

Catelyn stood, her belly churning like water circling a drain. The Prince’s use of both her maiden and married names was surely meant to make her feel uneasy and remind her of her connections to the rebellion’s leaders.  

“A word, if you will, my lady,” he said. “Come closer.”

Doing her best to stay calm, Catelyn slipped out of the row her seat had been in and walked the few paces up the carpeted path towards the throne. The Prince leaned forwards a little. She had never seen the Mad King sit upon the Iron Throne, but she had the feeling that Rhaegar Targaryen sat more easily upon it that his father had. She didn’t know whether to feel glad of that or not.

Closer up, Catelyn could see that he was still sporting an impressive black eye and his lip had been split cleanly, leaving behind swelling and a thin dark line of scabbing that made his chiselled face seem almost rough-hewn. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said in her strongest voice. She wondered whether she should kneel before him or not; she chose not to.

“I will admit that I am surprised to see you in King’s Landing. What brings you to the capital?” His tone was cool and collected. _Almost too poised_ , she thought, _as if he is putting on an act he has practised beforehand_. _And he surely knows the answer already, but he wants to hear me say it aloud, and here, where it can be heard by others._ She lifted her chin and replied,

“I come to beg an audience with you, Your Grace – a private audience – to discuss the fates of my father, Hoster of House Tully, and of my lord husband, Eddard of House Stark, whom you have condemned and imprisoned for treason.”

Rhaegar’s indigo eyes narrowed, but other than that, his face remained impassive. A long silence passed. Finally, he spoke: “My lady, you should not be here.” His gaze slipped briefly down to her belly. “You are heavy with child and yet you come here to plead for the lives of two men who led a treasonous rebellion against the Crown. Why? That is quite a risk to take, especially when you have known Eddard Stark but a few short months.”

Catelyn drew in a steadying breath. There was no threat in the Prince’s voice, but his meaning was clear. “As you have his sister, Your Grace, and yet you fought a war for her. Should you wish to compare risks I believe there would be little between us.”

The Prince stood up at that, his face dark, and for a moment, Catelyn thought he was about to order that she be dragged away, but then he came slowly down the steps and addressed Ser Arthur Dayne, “I would speak with the Lady Catelyn alone in the Council Chamber. Take her there, see that she is comfortable and stay with her until I come.” He met Catelyn’s gaze, his manner as calm and still as a millpond. “When I am done here, I will grant you your private audience, my lady.”

Her belly roiled again as Ser Arthur stepped towards her and offered her his arm. She caught the Prince’s eye as she took it. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He gave no reply, but nodded curtly and turned back to the assembled petitioners.

Ser Arthur took Catelyn out of the side entrance to the Throne Room, avoiding the crowds. Outside, the sun seemed brighter than ever and she blinked and squinted in its glare. She glanced about quickly, taking in her location and wondering whether she was near to where her father and husband were being kept. A few sets of curious eyes watched them as they crossed the courtyard, no doubt wondering who this new face was on the arm of a Kingsguard knight.

The Council Chambers were cool, dim and dominated by a large round table made of highly polished ebony. Eight chairs were placed around it, seven of them identical, but the eighth being somewhat grander. Ser Arthur pulled out one of the chairs for her and Catelyn sat. The ride up through the city had aggravated the muscle strain in her back caused by the long journey from Riverrun and she was grateful for the chance to sit once again. Once she was settled, he folded his large frame into a seat two spaces down from her and leaned back.

There was an awkward silence for a moment. “My lady, you will be pleased to know that your husband Lord Stark was moved from the Black Cells yesterday by order of the Prince,” the knight told her. His words were a little mechanical, as if he was unsure how to broach the issue. “He remains imprisoned, but his surroundings are a good deal more pleasant than they were.”

Catelyn looked at him. He had the most unusual purple eyes, she noticed. “And what of my father? And Lord Arryn?”

“I am afraid they remain.”

“That is a shame,” she said. She looked away. “My father is nearly fifty, and Lord Arryn is older still. Such confinement will not serve their health well.”

Ser Arthur was about to reply when the door opened and an aged man dressed in a maester’s robes with heavy chains of office clinking about his neck shuffled in. He seemed surprised to see Catelyn, but angled his head towards her in a distracted observation of courtesy. “Ah, Ser Arthur,” he said. “Whose company do we have today?”

“This is Lady Catelyn Stark, Pycelle,” replied Ser Arthur. “The Prince is coming to speak with her once he has finished with the petitioners for the day. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I was looking for His Grace. There is a matter for his attention.”

“There is much for the Prince’s attention today.”

“I know, I know,” Pycelle commiserated. “It is a heavy burden to rule these Kingdoms.” He paused. “When do you think he will arrive?”

“Shortly, I would imagine. Though, as I have said, he is very busy.”

Ser Arthur’s words were terse, almost dismissive, but the maester ignored his tone. Slowly, he pulled out one of the chairs and lowered himself into it. “Well, I shall wait anyway. It is most important business that I have with him, after all.” He smiled a fawning sort of smile at Ser Arthur, but received nothing in return.

 _There is history here_ , thought Catelyn, as she regarded the two of them, _and this Pycelle is not to be trusted_. The awkward silence returned then and she was relieved when the door finally opened and the Prince walked in, the heels of his boots clicking sharply on the stone floor. “Grand Maester Pycelle,” he greeted, unsmilingly. “I was not expecting to see you here. I have not called a Council meeting.”

“No, no, I know that, Your Grace, but an urgent matter has arisen that requires your attention.”

“Can it not wait?” asked Rhaegar. He took a seat in the grander chair at the head of the table and then set his hands flat on the surface of the table, studying them. “I have business here, as you can see.”

But the maester was not to be dissuaded. “Of course you do, Your Grace, but I thought you would want to hear this. There has been a raven from Lord Tywin,” he said. Rhaegar looked up at that and his eyes were suddenly hard as ice.

“And what does it say?”

Pycelle cleared his throat, glanced at Catelyn, and stroked his long, white beard. “It says that he is awaiting your words. Nothing more, Your Grace, but the message was written in Lord Tywin’s own hand.”

Rhaegar chuffed. “The lion grows fractious once more,” he observed, more to himself than anyone else. Feeling a little like she was not meant to be privy to this conversation, Catelyn was about to suggest that she took her leave for a few moments while the matter was discussed out of her earshot, but as she opened her mouth, the Prince drew in a deep breath and turned to Ser Arthur. “I presume Ser Jaime’s return to Casterly Rock is confirmed now?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Ser Arthur.

“Good.” He paused a moment, then addressed both Ser Arthur and Pycelle. “Arthur, when we are done here, please recover Ser Jaime’s white cloak from his sleeping cell and have it sent to Casterly Rock immediately. Include a message bearing my word that I have relieved Ser Jaime of his duties. Should Lord Tywin wish to name him as his heir once again, that is no concern of mine. Ser Jaime’s position on the Kingsguard will be filled as soon as I am able to secure a suitable knight. As to the matter of a marriage for Lady Cersei, I have some suggestions for her father, but I would rather speak to him in person about them. Grand Maester, send a raven to Casterly Rock and invite Lord Tywin to come to King’s Landing at his earliest discretion.”

The maester climbed ponderously to his feet at that, but was apparently satisfied with the response. “Very good, Your Grace. I shall send the message immediately, as you bid.” He glanced quickly at Catelyn, but said nothing to her as he withdrew.

Once the door had closed, Rhaegar allowed silence to sit for a long moment, before getting to his feet, opening the door and peering through it himself. As he closed it once again, he turned back to Ser Arthur and smiled thinly. “He has gone,” he confirmed. Ser Arthur nodded, and his relief was clearly evident. “I am most sorry that you had to meet that man, my lady,” he added to Catelyn. “I deal with my Grand Maester in the same way I would deal with a particularly devious skunk – with utmost caution for fear of him creating a stink I would not like.”

Ser Arthur chuckled and instantly the tension that had been in the room vanished.

“My father trusted Pycelle implicitly,” explained Rhaegar, “but I had long thought that trust misplaced. I warned him, but my father was not always inclined to listen to the advice he was given, whether that was from me or others. Had I not approached Lord Tywin with my offer to return his son and heir to him, I fear Pycelle would have stirred the pot of Lannister resentment to melting point.”

Catelyn stared. The Prince’s frankness surprised her, but what he had just disclosed surprised her still further. Her father had spoken of how Rhaegar had been planning to remove his father from power, but when naught had become of the rumours, she had assumed that the Prince of Dragonstone had simply been too intimidated by the thought of usurping his father’s throne to have put any plan into action. This conversation showed how foolish that belief had been. Prince Rhaegar clearly _had_ put a plan into action, and the cleverness of it could only be marvelled at. He had achieved exactly what he needed to achieve, whilst at the same time keeping his hands clean and pacifying a discontented lord.  

“You are likely wondering why I am telling you this, yes?”

Catelyn could frame no answer to that. Of course there was a reason, but her mind was so stunned by what she had learned that it had slowed to ineffectiveness.  

“I wanted you to see what I will do for something I want.” He stared at her, eyes unmoving and focused, for a long moment, then continued, “I am also aware of the rumours that circulated amongst the high lords after Harrenhal and I am quite sure your father shared those rumours with you. With what happened in the aftermath of Harrenhal, I can see how it would be possible for people to think that I became distracted from my plan and allowed events to unfold around me without intervention. So I am eager to have you see that has not been the case.” He paused. “But the other side of this is that you are mayhaps now uncertain whether or not to trust me yourself. I assure you, however, that I have no intention of wearing a cloak of deception with _you_ , my lady. It would serve me far better to be blunt with you. What do you wish to say to me?”

Catelyn swallowed, and through the haze of shock, the import of what she was about to do pricked at her again. The mask of collectedness was firmly back in place on Rhaegar’s face and she felt a chill run through her as she met his indigo eyes. She gathered herself. “You have imprisoned my husband and my lord father. I should imagine you know what I wish to say to you, Your Grace.”

“Release them?” he queried with a bob of his eyebrows.

“That is my final goal, of course, but I am realistic. I know that you see them as traitors and that you cannot allow this to go unpunished.”

“But you have something to propose don’t you, my lady? I can see it in your eyes.”  

“I do. You may have won this war and crushed the rebellion, but the realm remains unsettled. There were a great many supporters of Robert Baratheon’s uprising – important houses in the Seven Kingdoms and whole swathes of the realm. They may have lost, and may have retreated to lick their wounds, but they will not accept the deaths of their liege lords with the same quietude. Your reign may be safe for a while, for months, or mayhaps even years, but men remember and it may be that when you believe yourself secure in your governance, these men will rise again.”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat, Lady Catelyn?”

She shook her head. “Not unless you see it as such, Your Grace,” she replied calmly. “I, myself, saw it as advice. And now I make my proposal: after war, there comes peace, and with peace, there can be pardons, even for those who could be considered adversaries. Aegon the Conqueror was harsh with those that opposed him, but he was generous and tolerant with those who bent the knee. Speak with these men who have imprisoned, Your Grace, and you may find them surprisingly willing to swear their fealty to you.”

Catelyn’s heart was hammering in her chest by the time she finished speaking, but she willed her body not to show any outward sign of distress. She kept her spine straight and her eyes fixed on the Prince as he regarded her coolly.

The silence stretched and Catelyn waited.

“You sound very sure of this, my lady,” said Rhaegar eventually. “You speak for all these men and yet you have not seen any of them in many moons. War can change a man’s thinking – it can make him wish to never see another battle again, or it can charge his blood and make him crave the fight, no matter what the cost. What makes you so certain that your father, husband and Lord Arryn will bend the knee?”

 _Because they have no other option,_ thought Catelyn, but aloud she said, “Because they still have much to live for and to die for a lost cause is a folly. Right now, they are beaten, and they surely know it.”

“When I sent ravens to the high lords asking them to come to Harrenhal to discuss important matters regarding my father’s competence, I learned much. Jon Arryn was invited to Harrenhal and he came, as was Rickard Stark, though he sent his children in his place. Your father, however, did not come, nor did he send an envoy. Why was that, my lady? Could it be that he doubted me? In my mind, such a man would be unlikely to bend the knee to me.” Rhaegar’s voice was iron.

“You speak of treason, Your Grace. And treason is no small matter. It is easy to forget that now that all has been said and done and we stand where we are now. When the banners were raised, my father was unwilling to commit House Tully to a rebellion in which there appeared to be little gain for him, but when Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn offered him a favourable deal, he could not turn it down.” She took a breath and hoped the Prince could understand her meaning. “My father is a reasonable man, your Grace. He will listen to you, as will Lord Arryn, I am sure. My husband… well… he has lost a great deal to the fire and blood of the Targaryens and I think you would be wise to speak to him yourself. But, if I may be bold, Your Grace, you need these men on your side if you are to restore peace and harmony to Westeros again.”

There was another significant pause. Catelyn hoped she had not gone too far in speaking her mind. She waited, on tenterhooks, until finally, Rhaegar got to his feet and moved around the table towards her. “Lady Catelyn, you are a rare creature indeed; I commend you for your bravery in coming here and in speaking your mind so plainly to me. You are right. I do need good men if I am to rule these Kingdoms well. But despite this, I find myself in unfamiliar territory now, with little light to guide me.”

“I do not envy you your task,” Catelyn admitted. _Nor,_ she thought, _do I envy my father, my husband and Lord Arryn in theirs._

“No,” said the Prince with a contemplative frown. “At times I feel as if I am a juggler at a feast, wielding more balls than he can hold in his hands at any one time. I fear to drop one. And yet, I wonder if mayhaps that is not such a terrible thing, provided you have another to pick up the fallen ball and throw it back to you.”

It was an unusual, but rather accurate, analogy and Catelyn knew then that her arguments had not fallen on deaf ears.

Rhaegar extended his hand to her. She looked at it and realised that she knew what it represented. Slowly, she reached out and took it. His handshake was firm but steady. “They must bend the knee,” he said, and there was no further tolerance in his tone. “Or I will have no choice but to have their heads.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos people have left. Please can we keep the comments to do with the story rather than making observations about whether or not you like or dislike the characters. I do my best to characterise everyone who appears in canon as accurately as possible, but for those characters who are little more than memories, please try to keep an open mind and respect the decisions I have made as an author. 
> 
> Many thanks,
> 
> Jo.


	6. ARTHUR DAYNE - Friends and Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay again! This chapter was a difficult one to write.

ARTHUR DAYNE – Friends and Enemies

 

The space in the skyline still made him angry. Even now, weeks after the news had been delivered to them while they were in Dorne at the Tower, the sight of the ruins of Maegor’s Holdfast still had the power to make him tremor. It was anger, but it was also grief. Princess Elia had been a sweet and gentle-natured woman, and he had known her since childhood – it was a cruel jape that the gods should have taken her before she even saw five and twenty. And the babes… no child deserved to die, but to be engulfed by the flames of wildfire, that was a truly awful death.

It was a fine morning yet again. Arthur Dayne sat in one of the crenels along the battlements between the White Sword Tower and the Barracks. Behind him stretched the great expanse of blue that was the Blackwater Bay, and in the sky above, seagulls wheeled and screamed, as they followed the fishing cogs returning to the harbour with their catches. A warm, light breeze blew in from the east, occasionally strong enough to lift his white cloak as it hung over the wall.

He had been sitting here for some time, looking down at the ruins of Maegor’s from above and watching a small group of men sifting through the wreckage. Though much of the building had been utterly destroyed, there was still a carcass left – some of the great oaken timbers had managed to survive, blackened and brittle though they were, and while the walls had mostly collapsed inwards, there were sections in places still standing. At first, the site had been deemed too unsafe for anyone to enter, the ground apparently hotter than a furnace, and so the remains of the fires had smouldered on. When Prince Rhaegar had returned to the Red Keep, he had ordered water to be poured on in great quantities, and thereafter there had been daily searches of the ruins. On some mornings, it was said that the Prince could be found standing overlooking the work, his arms folded, saying nothing as he watched.

There had been just a dozen survivors who had escaped the heat of the blaze, and of the bodies recovered from the wreckage, only charred bones remained. Arthur knew that Rhaegar would not find his family, because he would not know whether the bones were handmaiden, pot-washer or Princess.

He was deep in thought, the sun warm on his face, when he heard familiar footsteps approach along the battlements to his right. He turned his head to see the Prince coming towards him. “Good morrow, my friend,” Rhaegar greeted. Arthur straightened and made to climb down, but Rhaegar put up his hand. “No need to move on my behalf.” He lifted himself into the crenel to Arthur’s right and leaned his elbows on the merlons on either side of him.

For a long moment, they sat in silence, both looking down at Maegor’s. Eventually, Rhaegar spoke, “Sometimes when I wake in the morning, I think it has all been some horrible dream and in that dream, I imagine myself walking into the ante-chamber of my room and finding Elia and Lyanna talking while the children and the babe all play at their feet…” A troubling sigh gushed out of him. He had always been a man who tended towards melancholy, but for years now, there had been a kind of heaviness about his manner, as if he was burdened with something so great its weight was making him sag. Arthur was one of the few people who knew what it was. “But I know that is only a dream,” continued Rhaegar, “and a futile one at that.” He paused. A breath of wind lifted his pale blond hair and strands of it blew forward over his face. “And then sometimes I blame myself,” he continued. “I wonder whether I shouldn’t have pushed harder, defied my father and sent them to Dragonstone or to Dorne regardless.”

Arthur had heard these doubts before. Rhaegar had shared them with him before the Trident, but as far as he could see, his answer was the same now as he had given then. “You cannot blame yourself, Your Grace. The realm was at war. Had you sent the children to Dorne, you may have lost your heirs in another way. Prince Doran may seem slow to react, but I assure you, he would not have looked that particular gift horse in the mouth. Maegor’s should have been the safest place for them.”

“Should have, yes…” replied Rhaegar distantly.

“It was a terrible accident,” Arthur told him. “We have no idea how or why the fire was started. And how were you to know that the king had piled wildfire beneath the Red Keep?”  

“I should have known. I should have made it my business to know. But, no, instead I was plotting my father’s murder with Tywin Lannister and involving myself in Lyanna’s little rebellion.” He paused and sighed again. His hand made a fist, his knuckles turning white like pearls. “Oberyn Martell is coming to King’s Landing.”

Arthur looked up at that, his frown deepening. He hadn’t seen Oberyn in years. “Oberyn?”

“Yes. The Red Viper has stirred from the grasses and I can’t imagine it is to come and bask in the glorious sunshine.”

Chuckling wryly, Arthur replied, “No, I expect not. Oberyn was ever a hot-headed soul, although Doran works well to temper him and I am told he has become more reasonable with age. I doubt he will coming here to congratulate you though. He and Elia were inseparable as children.”

“So my wife told me. She spoke often of her brother, and only ever with fondness. She missed him, I am sure.” His voice drifted away and he stared down at Maegor’s once again. “I would have given him her bones, if we had found any.”

There was little to be said to that. “What are you going to do with the site when the searches are finished?”

“I do not yet know. I am in two minds. Rebuild and go on, or level the entire thing and make a water garden. Elia would have loved that.”

The suggestions were rather touching when you knew the full truth, Arthur knew, but there were those who would consider them a faithless attempt to make amends in the aftermath of a catalogue of insults, Oberyn Martell among them. _Do I dare tell him?_ For a moment, Arthur considered. _But it must needs be said. He should know of how men will talk._

“What has the lady Lyanna said to this?”

Rhaegar turned sharply, his eyes dark. “You think I am being insincere in this don’t you?” he questioned. “That because I have brought her here to be with me, I have stopped caring for my dead family?”

Arthur swallowed. He had always spoken his mind to his closest friend, and had not yet seen Rhaegar grow offended by his words, but always the possibility haunted the back of his mind. There had been a change in the Prince since he had returned to King’s Landing and Arthur hoped it was not a change that would upset their friendship. “I speak only what I think others might believe, Your Grace. I know you were fond of your wife and your children meant the world to you, but I am your friend and know you well. Others may not be so understanding.”

“I do not need their approval. Or their endorsement. My wife is dead.”

“But she wasn’t when you went to help Lady Lyanna escape her betrothal.”

“You knew what I intended to do, Arthur,” Rhaegar replied shortly. “As did Elia. And she gave no objection.”

“Did she not?” Elia was a sweet-natured woman, but she was never what could be called bold, and where Rhaegar was concerned, could often see no stain. 

“She did not!” blazed the Prince, angry now. He jumped down from the crenel, indigo eyes flashing, and for a moment, Arthur thought he was going to pull him down and square up to him. But then, as he looked at his friend, Rhaegar seemed to calm himself again and then sighed. “She did…” he repeated with distraction. “Oh Elia… Did she tell _you_ she was unhappy with my plan?”

Arthur slipped down to stand on level terms with Rhaegar. “Not exactly, no, but she had some… misgivings. She wondered whether the Lady Lyanna was one of your fixations.”

“My fixations?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, my choice of words was probably unfair. But, Elia worried that you were so interested in Lady Lyanna only because of the reading you had been doing.”

“Because of the prophecy?”

Arthur nodded. “You cannot deny it has been your life’s work to make sense of it, my friend.”

“It is of grave importance!” said the Prince. “I cannot ignore it.”

“I never said that you should. Elia grew up in Dorne, she knows what it means to have a paramour, and she was a woman capable of real empathy. She was concerned about Lady Lyanna and worried that your intentions were not honest. That mayhaps you had not been honest with her.”

“Lya came to me, Arthur, you know that. She knows of the prophecy, and its importance, the same as Elia did.” He paused. “And my feelings for her have never been untrue.”

“But none of that is yet common knowledge, Your Grace. Many of the rebels will believe the tale Robert Baratheon spun of your kidnap and rape of Lady Lyanna, Ned Stark included.”

Rhaegar’s face hardened and he turned. He stepped away from the parapet wall and right up to where the walkway dropped sharply away to the courtyard below. The toes of his black boots were over the edge, tasting daylight; with one further step, he would fall, and yet Arthur did not move. It was his duty to protect his king, and Rhaegar was his king now, uncrowned, but his king nonetheless. The Prince was in no danger, though, Arthur was sure. For a long moment, Rhaegar was silent and Arthur watched his back, watched the muscles working beneath his tunic. “You wish me to speak with Ned Stark and the rebel leaders too,” Rhaegar said at length.

Arthur moved alongside his prince. “I think if you wish to rule this realm you must needs be more transparent. Secrets and lies gain nothing--”

“-though sometimes they are necessary,” interrupted Rhaegar.

Arthur was about to reply when they heard the pitter-patter of leather-soled shoes ascending the steps that climbed up the curtain wall. A messenger boy appeared then, grasping a piece of parchment. He was breathless and his sandy hair was sticking to his forehead, as if he had run for some distance to get here. “Your Grace,” he blurted.

Rhaegar turned and looked on the boy. “What is it?”

“A message from the guards at the Mud Gate, Your Grace.”

With a sigh, the Prince took the message and opened it, reading the contents swiftly and then rolling it back up and dismissing the boy with a wave. “Oberyn Martell and his party have been sighted on the Kingsroad south of the city,” said Rhaegar. “Send Ser Barristan with an honour guard to meet them at the Mud Gate. I will greet him at the gates to the Red Keep, and you should come with me. Fetch Prince Lewyn from his sleeping cell as well. He will want to meet his nephew I have no doubt. I shall meet you both at the Barbican shortly.”

By the time Arthur arrived with Prince Lewyn at the gates of the Red Keep, Rhaegar was already waiting, standing a dozen paces outside the Barbican. He had flung open the gates, raised the portcullis, and had ten mounted men lined along the approach of Aegon’s Hill. The sun was high in the sky now and the dull heat that often hung over the city was growing. Flies buzzed around the horses, and while they flicked their tails and tossed their heads to be free of them, every man was still. It seemed as if all held an indrawn breath.

Amid the silence, Arthur came to stand beside Rhaegar and Prince Lewyn joined him. The Dornishman had taken an injury at the Trident and was hobbling with the aid of a cane fashioned from yew, but he looked a good deal better than he had done when Arthur had first seen him after he had returned. Rhaegar nodded a greeting, as if speaking at all might somehow be inappropriate. Somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnied. As one, they all turned to look down the steep incline of the High Hill.

A large gathering of riders could be seen making steady progress up the hill – there must have been close to a hundred men, Arthur realised. Banners bearing the sun and spear of House Martell flew above the party, along with a number of other banners from significant houses sworn to Sunspear. Rhaegar said not a word, but Arthur could read his disquiet nonetheless. This was no small party and the intention behind their numbers could not be clearer – Prince Doran wanted to remind the Targaryens of the might of Sunspear.

 Slowly, the group of riders ascended the hill. Once they were within clear sight, Arthur saw that Prince Oberyn was at the head of the party. He was mounted on a lithe flame-red sand steed, a stallion with a lofty head carriage and an elegant dished face, and dressed in a white silken tunic secured with a belt of brass rings. A sun and spear was embroidered upon the chest in glittering gold thread. He wore no mail or plate, nor even a helm, but his round shield was slung on his back and a short-spear was clasped in his right hand – _again, a message_ , Arthur thought, _but one not devoid of hope_.

Arthur had last seen Oberyn Martell at Elia and Rhaegar’s wedding some five years previously, and since then he had aged a deal, his face now showing lines beneath the dark pools of his eyes. His hair was swept back from his face with some kind of glistening oil and secured with a leather switch. Ser Barristan rode beside the Dornish Prince. As they approached, Rhaegar stepped forwards and spread his hands in a welcoming gesture.

“Prince Oberyn Martell, I extend my warmest welcome to King’s Landing, and to the Red Keep,” he said. “Might I introduce my good friend and the Kingsguard knight Ser Arthur Dayne, and of course, Prince Lewyn of Dorne, whom you know well.”

Prince Oberyn spared no more than a brief glance towards Rhaegar before turning to greet his uncle warmly. “Uncle, it is good to see you.” He slid down from his horse and went to Prince Lewyn, embracing him. “We had heard you were gravely injured. My brother was deeply concerned, but it seems you are improving. How is your leg?”

“Much better,” said Prince Lewyn as they broke apart. He adjusted his grip on the cane he was using to help support his weight. “It is still troubling me, I am afraid, but it is a deal better than it was.”

Prince Oberyn stood back and returned his gaze to Rhaegar, the convivial mood with which he had greeted his uncle all but gone. Unperturbed, Rhaegar continued, “You must all be tired and in need of rest and refreshment. Allow us to take your horses and I will see that all your men are provided with such.”

The Dornishman’s jaw flexed as he regarded Rhaegar in silence. For a moment Arthur thought he was going to refuse the offer, then he nodded and replied, “Your offer is most welcome. My men are indeed tired, but I am not. I have come here for answers and I do not wish to rest until I have heard them. I would speak with you, Rhaegar Targaryen. And privily.”  

If Rhaegar bristled at the demanding tone, he did not show it. His face utterly blank, he replied, “Of course. Ser Arthur, please show Prince Oberyn to the Council Chamber. I will join you as soon as I have seen that there are people to tend to your horses and party.”

“Very well,” said Prince Oberyn. He turned to Arthur and smiled. “House Dayne, an old and much respected house, sworn to Sunspear for generations. It is some while since I have seen you in Dorne, Ser.”

“My duties have kept me in the north,” Arthur told him. “I confess I do not return to my family home often. My father is Lord of Starfall and my older brother will inherit the seat. I am but a second son.”

“I was not always a second son,” said Prince Oberyn. “But I am now.”

It was small talk, Arthur knew, but still he felt uneasy. Oberyn Martell was sharp-witted and had a reputation for being quite ruthless when necessary. Although he had known him for years, Arthur wasn’t sure that he completely trusted the Dornish Prince and he was certain that Rhaegar definitely should not.

They walked across the courtyard towards the Council Chambers. When they were barely half way across, Prince Oberyn paused in his step and turned. A v-shaped frown appeared between his eyes and his lips thinned into a line. “That is all that is left?” he asked in a tight voice.

“It is…” They both stared at the gap in the skyline where Maegor’s Holdfast had once dominated. “Wildfire burns with an incredible heat, and once it has caught, it is difficult to extinguish. There were but a handful of survivors.”

Prince Oberyn’s frown deepened. He stared for a long moment before shaking his head. “I should like to visit the ruins in time, Ser Arthur.”

He kept his head down and said nothing more as Arthur led him to the Council Chamber, the sorrow etched in the lines of his face, and still nothing as he was offered a seat and a cup of wine. He took the seat but declined the wine, and leaned back, steepling his fingers together while he ruminated in further silence. From the courtyard below, the sounds of horses being led away, their steel-shod hooves clopping on the stones, drifted through the open window. An occasional shout or whinny punctuated, but elsewise, there was nothing. Oberyn Martell said not a word. It was excruciating.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Arthur said when he could bear it no longer.

Prince Oberyn looked up from his intense study of his own steepled hands and regarded Arthur with a distant expression. Another frown rippled across his brow. “Words are wind,” he said. “Sorry means little to me, Ser. I have lost my beloved sister and my niece and nephew.”

“Still,” replied Arthur. “I am sorry.”

The Dornishman grunted.

The door opened. Rhaegar walked within and all eyes turned towards him. Arthur got to his feet, but pointedly, Prince Oberyn did not. Instead he fixed Rhaegar with a cold stare. “Your men are all being fed and watered in the Grand Hall, Prince Oberyn.”

“My thanks for that.”       

Rhaegar took his seat at the head of the table and leaned forward until his elbows were resting on the polished black surface. “I suppose I could begin this meeting with apologies and sympathies, but I also suppose that you have not come here for such things, my Prince.”

Prince Oberyn inclined his head.

“I do extend my deepest sympathies, whether you choose to accept them or not, and if I could bring them back, I would surely do so. But it is foolhardy to think that way. Elia is gone, and Aegon and Rhaenys with her, and life must go on in the wake of that, or else their deaths become a tragedy all over again.”

“The tragedy is their premature deaths. And the way my sister was treated at your hands. I am told you plan to wed the Stark girl.”

Rhaegar’s jaw clenched. “There is much you do not understand. And I hear the unwillingness to listen in your voice too, which saddens me.”

Tension drew out tight as a blade from a scabbard and Arthur felt his heartbeat thumping in his chest. Across the table from Rhaegar, Oberyn Martell had not moved, but like his namesake, he was coiled and ready to strike. Arthur’s head was suddenly full of silly crib tales – the great lion who trod on the snake and received venom-filled fangs in his paw for his misstep. He wondered if the snake could wound the dragon in the same way.

“Elia was involved in every action I did,” said Rhaegar. “I hid nothing from her. Aegon the Conqueror took two wives, and I intended to do the same. She knew this and gave her blessing. As for ‘the Stark girl’, what I do or do not choose to do with Lady Lyanna is not for you to say, least of all now that I am a widower.”   

“If you had sent Elia and the children home to Dorne, you would not have been.”

“To Dorne?” replied Rhaegar. _He is so calm it is unnerving,_ thought Arthur. Other men would have wilted under the pressure of tension by this point, but Rhaegar Targaryen could have an iron will when he wanted.

“They would have been safe there. Aerys was a fool and not of sound mind. You knew that. Had you sent them to Dorne, they would have been safe in Sunspear until the rebellion was over.”

“Safe?” Rhaegar pushed back his chair and got to his feet. He stalked around the table until he was facing Prince Oberyn directly, then he stared long and hard at the Dornishman, before coldly replying, “Prince Doran has earned himself quite the reputation for caution and inactivity already, but I do not believe for a moment that he would have looked at the arrival of Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon in his hands and not acted to use it to his advantage. The Princess of Dragonstone and the royal children _in his own hands_ … what a coup that would have been!” His voice was like a gust of freezing wind. Prince Oberyn’s face darkened and for a moment, Arthur wondered if he was about to draw that vicious pointed short-spear that was hanging from his hip and ram it through Rhaegar’s eye. “You speak as if our houses have ever been fast friends, but we both know that is not the case. And in a time of open rebellion against the Crown, you surely cannot blame me or my father for choosing to be wary.”

There was a tense pause. Both men swallowed audibly and Arthur waited for who would dare to speak next. It was Rhaegar, in the end, but this time his tone was quieter, “I do not wish to call an end to the alliance between House Martell and House Targaryen. The Seven Kingdoms needs stability and peace, not further bloodshed or simmering resentment. And so I say this to you – I believe I have tolerated your tone quite enough, my Prince, and I believe I have allowed you considerable grace, knowing how it feels to lose someone you care for. I am deeply sorry for your loss, but it strikes me that this posturing is getting neither of us anywhere. There should be at least enough common ground between us to allow us to work together to organise a fitting memorial service for Elia and the children. What do you say?”

Prince Oberyn narrowed his dark eyes and his jaw worked. Silence filled the room like an unwelcome guest. Finally, he replied, “My sister should be mourned in a way that befits her status as Crown Princess.”

Some of the tightness dissipated from Rhaegar’s shoulders. “Of course. The service will be in the Great Sept and there will be a funeral courtege through the city beforehand. The banners will fly at half-mast and when all is done, a more lasting memorial will be erected to remember her by so that mayhaps the folly that caused this tragedy will never be forgotten.”

“You have given some thought to this,” observed the Dornishman. “But that does not change the insult you dealt her. My sister did not deserve to be set aside for another.”

Rhaegar sighed. “I had no intention of setting her aside. I have explained as much already. She was my wife and the mother of my children. I know it is tempting to judge me based on some of my actions, Prince Oberyn, but like so many things in this life, there is more than first meets the eye. There is a good deal that you do not yet understand – too much, I fear, to explain now. And so, to that end, I offer you a seat on my Small Council, where you will come to learn some of my reasons for doing as I have and have a hand in every discussion and decision made.”

Arthur held his breath as Prince Oberyn regarded Rhaegar with a look of easing suspicion. Either the man they called the Red Viper had been given strict instructions from his brother, or he had mellowed somewhat with age. Arthur could not imagine him settling for appeasement when he was first given that name.

“There have been a great many secrets, Prince Rhaegar – too many – and secrets breed distrust and suspicion. My brother bid me to come here to renew the bonds between our houses. I, however, did not wish to. I would gladly have served you war with Dorne in a heartbeat. I still have doubts. But for the sake of my sister, who was kind and gentle-hearted, and would have wished to see some amicable agreement, and for my brother, who believes it is what this realm needs, I will accept your offer and continue our alliance.” He paused. “There is one further thing, however. My brother has a daughter, my niece, Arianne, and he would like to see her married to your brother Prince Viserys, some compensation for our terrible losses.”

Rhaegar blinked and replied, “Arianne is but a girl, a child, and Viserys too. Prince Doran wishes to betroth them at such a young age?”

“He wishes to have leverage, Prince Rhaegar.” Oberyn smiled, and suddenly he was the serpent again, sly and devious. “Your father may have thought that Dorne was fit to be threatened and held to ransom, but he was wrong. You will not make the same mistake, I am certain, but to ensure that you do not, Viserys will come to Sunspear to be raised alongside Arianne, the better to know his bride when they are of an age to wed.”

For a moment, Arthur thought that Rhaegar was going to slam his fist on the table and order Prince Oberyn to leave, but to his surprise, he did not. Instead, he chuffed out a soft, sardonic laugh. “You strike clean, my Prince. I believe both of our backs are to the wall. Viserys will be warded to Sunspear and the alliance between our houses shall continue.”

Prince Oberyn got to his feet. He held out his hand. “There is opportunity to be had from every crisis, Your Grace.”

“Indeed,” said Rhaegar as he took the Dornishman’s hand.

A week later, from dawn, the banners above the Red Keep were lowered to half mast, and a thousand men of the City Watch lined the route from the castle to the Great Sept of Baelor. No bones had been found, so no remains could be carried through the city. Instead, Prince Oberyn and Prince Rhaegar walked side by side through the streets and up Visenya’s Hill, leading a procession of mounted Martell and Targaryen bannermen, with black streamers tied to their helms and caparisons. All six remaining men of the Kingsguard rode behind Rhaegar and the Dornish Prince, their white cloaks billowing in a gentle breeze rising from across the Bay.

Rhaegar was dressed all in black, Prince Oberyn in the colours of his house, and both men kept their heads down and their faces impassive. It seemed that every soul in the city was silent, even in the crowds that pushed and pressed behind the human barrier of City Watchmen, eager to catch a glimpse of the exalted company, so that the only sounds were the metallic ring of horseshoes and the cracking of streamers and banners.

Gerold Hightower led the Kingsguard, a couple of paces ahead, and Arthur rode between Oswell Whent and Prince Oberyn. They kept a distance away from Rhaegar and Prince Lewyn, but were ever on guard. The City Watch had done a fine act of keeping the folk of King’s Landing off the route, but Arthur knew how fractious a crowd could be. It would not take much for the silence and respect to disintegrate.

As they approached the Great Sept, the bells began to toll in a low, monotonous rhythm. All stopped at the wide marble steps, and those who had been invited to attend the service entered, while the Kingsguard were divided. Arthur, along with Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower stood before the closed doors, while Prince Lewyn, Jonothor Darry and Barristan Selmy went within. The City Watch formed a semi-circle around the plaza, keeping the crowds of watchers back from the entrance.

Arthur stood, silent and unmoving, as was expected from the Kingsguard when they were on duty. It was midday, and the sun was high above them, beating down heat, and it wasn’t long before he began to sweat. Yet he could not move. Beads of perspiration dribbled from his brow beneath his helm and tracked down his cheeks to soak into his linen tunic. To mark the passage of time, he watched the shadows shift as the sun changed positions, but still the doors remained closed.

After a time, he heard chanting within, and then the bells silenced and the crowd began to murmur. He glanced across at Gerold Hightower. The man was as motionless as the statue of Baelor the Blessed that dominated the plaza, his face no less craggy. Abruptly, there came a groan as the great doors were pushed open and Prince Rhaegar and Prince Oberyn appeared in the entrance. They stood there for a moment before descending the steps. The Kingsguard gathered behind them, mounted up, and then they were on their way again, forging a pathway through the crowd to head back down Visenya’s Hill.

It was good to be on the move again. Out of the shelter of the plaza, the breeze grew again and Arthur twisted in his saddle as it licked over him, seemingly as cool and refreshing as if he were being drenched in ice water. The two princes in front of him kept up a steady pace as they moved down the hill and through the streets of King’s Landing towards the Red Keep. It was quiet once again, and every man, woman and child who lined their path stood as still as if they had been frozen in place.

They were approaching the wide avenue that tracked up Aegon’s High Hill when there was a sudden commotion up ahead. Arthur’s eyes flew up the gathered ranks of City Watchmen to see two men break formation and reach out in vain as a child darted from a gap. Instantly, Gerold Hightower had kicked his mount forward and drawn his sword, Barristan Selmy just behind him. They wheeled in front of Rhaegar ready to shield him.

The child came barrelling down the empty street towards the procession, with long, matted hair flying. A few voices cried out from the crowd as Arthur reined up and dismounted. “Stop!” shouted Barristan, but the child ignored him.

It was a girl, Arthur realised, although from the look of her she was little more than a street urchin. She was dressed in a thin, ripped tunic that had once been white or pale in colour but was now stained and dirtied to a grey-brown. She was barefoot and her knees, her face and her hands were grubby. With the slipperiness of an eel, she dodged through the legs of Gerold and Barristan’s horses and darted towards Prince Rhaegar.

“Stop!” shouted Barristan again.

“Father!”

Rhaegar froze, staring. The girl threw herself at his legs, and although she was but a skinny little thing, the Prince sank to his knees. His arms went around her.

“Rhaenys…” he said. “Oh, Rhaenys!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who left comments and kudos on the previous chapter. :)


	7. CATELYN - She Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn meets someone she had never thought to meet and discovers that there is much more than meets the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - again. Hopefully it is worth the wait!

CATELYN – She Wolf

 

Catelyn woke to the sound of a horn blowing from the battlements. Since Princess Rhaenys had been found, the entire Red Keep had come to a standstill – there had been no council meetings, no petitions, no feasts or entertainments put on, and everyone had moved around in hushed silence. The blaring horn seemed like the first sound to have been uttered in days.

Few had seen Prince Rhaegar, or his daughter, but even so, the story of the little princess’s survival had quickly become public knowledge. The tale that had emerged told of how Rhaenys had been playing with her kitten when the fire had been started, but in the chaos, the cat had taken fright and fled. Desperate to save her kitten from the fire, she had ignored the frantic calls of her nursemaid and gone running after it. While the fire raged, she had followed the cat as it escaped through a hidden passageway deep beneath the castle and out into the city. But once within the streets of King’s Landing, the cat had vanished, leaving Rhaenys alone and frightened. She had tried to get back to the Red Keep, only to find the gates closed and panicked shouts coming from within. Fearing something terrible had happened, she had slunk away to Flea Bottom, falling in with a gang of street urchins, until she had seen her father walking through the city on his way to the Great Sept of Baelor.   

It was a story worthy of a song. Catelyn had seen the little princess just once since she had been found, holding her father’s hand tightly as they walked in the gardens. The torn and stained nightgown she had been wearing when she had fled for her life had been replaced with a highborn girl’s dress, her dark hair washed and brushed, and the dirt scrubbed from her skin until its beautiful almond colour was revealed. But there was now a shadow in her purple-blue eyes that reminded Catelyn of her father. She wondered if Rhaenys had seemed so sad before or whether it was the loss of her mother and brother that had summoned the shadow.

The horn blew again and Catelyn pushed back the sheets and rolled herself to a seated position on the edge of the bed. Her belly jutted out massively in front of her, a great mound of child just waiting to enter the world. The Grand Maester had come to speak with her yesterday and Catelyn had tried to deflect the creeping fellow as best she could. She did not want to give birth in King’s Landing, let alone in the care of such a slippery individual as Grand Maester Pycelle. She wished she had brought Riverrun’s own Maester Vyman with her in her company, but she had not, and so she knew she must needs pray for a swift resolution to the predicament or she would indeed find herself being tended to by Pycelle.

With some effort, she got to her feet and went to the window. Her rooms were in the Maidenvault and if she opened the window wide and leaned out slightly, she could just about see the bar and portcullis that allowed passage from the outer courtyard to the inner. She wondered why the horn was blowing. No doubt someone was arriving, but whom? She had no idea.

While she had been given comfortable rooms, fine food and drink, and a handmaiden to tend to her needs, information and news had been scant. She saw few people other than the men she had brought with her and the servant girls who came to clean her rooms, bring her food and wash her garb, and fill her bathtub. Her handmaiden had worked in the Red Keep for a dozen years, but even she was unable to answer the questions Catelyn had. 

Prince Rhaegar had not spoken to her since they had faced one another across the ebony table in the Council Chamber. She had left that meeting filled with a sense of success, convinced that the Prince was going to speak with her father and lord husband, but then Oberyn Martell had arrived in the city, Princess Rhaenys had been found, and everything had changed. Days had passed and talk of the rebel leaders had all but vanished. Catelyn had begun to wonder if her efforts had been in vain and her suggestions lost in the melee of other events. If they had, she was disappointed, but she could not blame the Prince – to have found his daughter when he had thought his whole family lost was something Catelyn could not bear to think about.

She called for her maid and with the girl’s help, managed to heave herself into the bathtub to wash. She dressed in the only garment she had that still fit her, then tried to eat a little of the oaten porridge and honey that had been brought for her to break her fast on. Food had been difficult to eat these past few days. It felt as if there was no room inside her for anything at all, let alone a decent meal.

When she stepped out of her rooms, it was another bright and glorious day. Yellow sunlight filled the halls and warmed her skin as she walked. Ser Desmond and Ser Robin had been given sleeping cells in the barracks and she liked to check on them each morning, even though there was no news to tell them. Ser Desmond was rolling up his swords and dagger in linen before taking them to be sharpened but stopped and smiled when he caught sight of her. “My lady,” he greeted. “Are you well? Is there any further news?”

“I am well and there is no news, I am afraid. It seems we must wait a little longer still.”

Ser Desmond sighed. He had never been a patient man and this waiting around was agony for him. “Mayhaps you should ask to speak to the Prince again?” he suggested.

“No,” replied Catelyn. “Prince Rhaegar has had rather a turbulent few days. I thought it best not to press the matter. I am sure he will come to it in time.”

“Very well, my lady.”

They exchanged a few more formalities and then Catelyn took her leave. She climbed the steps up onto the battlements above the barracks and stood for a long moment watching across the Blackwater Bay. In the rich sunshine, the water was the colour of blue topazes and sparkled just the same. A ship was anchored out in deeper water, its hull painted yellow and its rolled sails dyed yellow and black. _Those are Baratheon colours_ , she thought with a start. _Is Stannis here?_

She squinted into the distance, trying to see if there was any movement on the ship, but it was too far away to make out any detail with the naked eye. The last she’d heard of Stannis Baratheon had been when Ser Robin had told her that Prince Rhaegar had ordered that the siege of Storm’s End be stood down, a move which had surprised her. Surely the Prince believed that Stannis Baratheon was as much a traitor as his brother?

Mayhaps Stannis had been ordered to come to the capital to answer for his crimes and _that_ was the reason for his ship sitting out in the Blackwater Bay right now. It seemed a rather peculiar way of arresting someone for treason to the crown, however, and made her mind turn to another possibility. Could it be that Stannis was involved in some kind of deal with the Prince?

Her heart clenched at the thought of that, for it gave her wish of seeing her father and husband live new hope. If Rhaegar could pardon Stannis, then he could very well choose to offer the same to the lords Tully, Arryn and Stark.

She was deep in thought when she heard footsteps behind her and spun to see a girl – no, a young woman – coming towards her. She was dark of hair, with a thin, long face bracketed by sharp cheekbones, and her eyes… her eyes were the same colour as the ones she had looked into in the Sept at Riverrun as she had said her vows to the Seven and promised to stay true to her husband for all of her days.

It was Lyanna Stark, Catelyn was sure of it.

A thousand thoughts whirled through her head, each one clamouring for attention. This was the girl Brandon had run down to King’s Landing for, the maid Robert Baratheon had charged his sword for, the sister her lord husband had sought to rescue from the clutches of the Prince. Catelyn was not sure what she had been expecting, but somehow she was disappointed. There was nothing particularly remarkable about Lyanna Stark. She was a pretty, highborn young woman, for certainty, but she was no great beauty, and there was a coolness in her expression that was enough to make Catelyn shiver.

What was most notable about her was that she was with child, heavy with child, and being dogged by a man of the Kingsguard.

They regarded one another for a moment, before Lyanna inclined her head in acknowledgement and said, “Lady Catelyn, I believe.”

Catelyn nodded, all words suddenly vanished. She stood there dumbly and in silence until Lyanna added, “I hear you are now a Stark too, my lady, wed to my dear brother, Ned.”

“Yes, Ned, I--” The name sounded awkward on her tongue. Before they had parted, there had been time for little but a bedding and the most formal of conversations. To him, she had been ‘my lady’, and to her, he had been ‘Eddard’ or ‘my lord’. The idea of calling him by the name she had heard his friends and family use seemed too familiar somehow. “Have you seen him? Where is he? He is not being harmed is he?” Catelyn hoped she did not sound too needy, even though she most certainly felt she was. The lack of news about her father and husband was almost unbearable.

Lyanna, ignoring the questions, let her eyes fall to look at Catelyn’s swollen middle. Under the gaze, Catelyn placed an instinctive hand over the bump. “You are but days away from birth. You should be confined, my lady, to ensure that all goes smoothly. You carry the heir to Winterfell in your belly.”

“As you carry Prince Rhaegar’s heir,” Catelyn stated, looking pointedly at Lyanna’s own belly, which was almost, but not quite, as large as her own.

“If the child is a boy. If not, Princess Rhaenys will be the elder, and the rightful heir.”

Catelyn said nothing to that. She wondered if Lyanna had questioned her role in all of this. There had been whisperings amongst the girls who tended her about the Prince choosing to wed his wolf maid, but there had been other whisperings too, ones that made her wonder how much Lyanna knew of Prince Rhaegar’s book-reading, and what was in his mind. Did she know what was said of her and her lover? And if she did, did she even care? All she had done prior to this point could be called heedless, after all.

Lyanna smiled a sweet and slightly sly smile, and suddenly, Catelyn was reminded of the sigil of House Stark that had blazed across her lord husband’s banners as he had rode into Riverrun – a direwolf, racing across an ice-white field, its teeth bared. “Oh, do not think me so silly and foolish as you might have heard, Lady Catelyn,” she said. “I know what is breathed about me behind my back. They do not have the courage to say it to my face, yet they whisper it when they think I cannot hear them.” The smile sank away and she turned to look out over the bay, her chin lifting as she took a gust of salt air into her lungs. “Rhaegar warned me about them.”

“I do not think you silly and foolish,” said Catelyn. She did not elaborate with any more honest descriptors and, thankfully, Lyanna took her lack of response as agreement.

“Good, because I am not,” Lyanna said. “My father thought to marry me to Robert Baratheon. He thought the good Lord of Storm’s End was a great southron match for me. Well, I found my own southron match, and it is a good deal better. Prince Rhaegar and I are to wed at the soonest opportunity after he is crowned.”

_So it is true,_ thought Catelyn. _Rhaegar has wasted little time in this._ She swallowed back the temptation to give voice to bitter thoughts about priorities and instead simply nodded. “Then I wish you every success. Mayhaps a new marriage is what the Prince needs to ease him, given everything he has lost.”

Lyanna regarded her sceptically for a moment, as if she were considering whether there was any trickery in Catelyn’s words. “Mayhaps,” she agreed, turning away. “We both have lost much and more.”

Frowning, Catelyn thought again of Lord Rickard Stark and his eldest son, her betrothed, Brandon Stark, and the horrible deaths they had both endured at the hands of the Mad King. Would either of them be dead had this _girl_ not behaved with such wilful self-interest? It did not bear thinking about. What was done was done and there was little that could change it now. She wondered if Lyanna regretted her decision now that she knew the consequences of her actions. “War has a way of doing that,” Catelyn said quietly. “Men walk so willingly towards it thinking it will make heroes of them and get them what they most desire, but often as not, they return disappointed. If they return at all.”

“Indeed,” agreed Lyanna. She glanced back at the Kingsguard knight standing a short distance away from her. “Ser Oswell, please allow me some privacy. I would speak with Lady Catelyn alone.”

“Yes, my lady,” said the knight. He turned and backed off a dozen strides or so and stood facing away from them, his white cloak fluttering lightly in the breeze.

“Before you think that I have not heard the meaning behind your words, let me speak, Lady Catelyn. If I could go back to the start, I would surely have tried to keep my brother and father alive. Their deaths were never what I intended. But, how was I to know that Brandon would come storming into the Red Keep and threaten the life of the Prince? My father always said he had the wolf blood in him, but I never thought he would do something so heedless… so _stupid_.” She shook her head and sighed. “And then of course my father had to come after him, honourable fool that he was. He was a Stark, and wolves are creatures of the pack. We stick together when the winter comes.”

Catelyn thought of Eddard Stark rotting in the dungeons and frowned. “That’s a little false-faced, do you not think? Your brother is locked away as a traitor by the man you claim to love and you stand by and do nothing. What if Prince Rhaegar wants his head? Will you stand by your dragon then, my lady?”

Bridling, Lyanna glared at her. “I have done what I can for Ned.”

“Have you?” Catelyn’s voice was icy. She gave Lyanna no chance to reply before adding, “Only you can know that, I fear. The question remains though, will it be enough? I do not wish to become a widow, any more than you do Lyanna Stark, yet I fear that Prince Rhaegar has an important task ahead of him. If he is to rule the Seven Kingdoms in the shadow of his father’s terrible legacy and in the wake of open rebellion against the crown, he must make his choices wisely. I have pleaded for the lives of the rebel leaders, but I have not heard Prince Rhaegar’s judgement on my petition. And in the light of this, my hopes begin to grow cold.”

Lyanna’s face was dark with indignation. “You should not be so quick to judge His Grace, my lady. Prince Rhaegar is not his father.”

“So I keep hearing, and yet, I have little personal evidence to suggest you are correct. True, from what I have seen of him, the Prince does seem to be quite sane, but sanity does not make a good king. The right choices make a good king.”

“Rhaegar is just and he is fair. He will make the right choices,” replied Lyanna. There was something uncertain in her voice, though, and Catelyn wondered yet again if mayhaps this young girl was questioning her own choices.  In some ways, she hoped she was. It did everyone good to have a little doubt thrown amongst the conviction.

“I hope so, too.”

Lyanna turned away and looked out across the bay once again, towards the yellow and black ship at anchor in the deeper water. Catelyn stood a moment, watching her, and suddenly realised that when it came down to it, they were not so very different. They were both here in King’s Landing, and they had both tried to change the stars – it was just that, so far, Catelyn had not wrought such a trail of destruction in her wake.

But was that because of better planning? Luck? Or something bigger than all of that? She did not know. Her father had often said that fate had a sellsword’s cruelty and it would cut your throat if it thought there was something in it.  

In the end, Catelyn knew, there was as much to admire about Lyanna Stark as there was to condemn, and that was the way it was with so many.

Mayhaps she had been too harsh in her judgement.

Slowly, she stepped up to the parapet wall to stand alongside Lyanna. “Why is Stannis here?” she asked.

“Rhaegar bid him come. He has a proposal for him – the waking of an old alliance from a long slumber.”

Catelyn frowned. Could it be? “An old alliance?”

“Between House Targaryen and House Baratheon,” Lyanna explained. “Rhaegar is going to ask Lord Stannis to be his Hand. He will remain the Lord of Storm’s End, of course, but will appoint a castellan to manage the castle while he is in the capital.” She paused, glanced sideways at Catelyn. “I asked him to make Ned his Hand, but he had already decided on Lord Stannis. He said that the man was made for the job.”

It was something Catelyn had not considered, and yet, there was a kind of sense about it. Stannis Baratheon was indeed everything a good Hand of the King should be, but Catelyn had assumed that Tywin Lannister would be first in line. All the Seven Kingdoms knew how the Lord of Casterly Rock had ruled the realm while he was Aerys’ Hand. “Has Lord Stannis accepted?”

“I do not know yet, but there are few options available to him. Lord Stannis is a wise man – I do not think he will refuse.”

“Hm,” Catelyn said. The Baratheons had never wanted for stubbornness, and it was Rhaegar himself who had killed Robert in the waters of the place on the Trident the smallfolk now called Traitor’s Ford, but she did not voice her misgivings. Instead, she added, “I hope you are right.” She looked pointedly at Lyanna. “There needs to be an end to all of this. As I told Prince Rhaegar.”

There was silence, then, between the two of them. In the pause, Catelyn listened to the gentle sound of the sea and the hysterical laughter of seagulls overhead.

“Everything must have an end,” said Lyanna eventually. “I am not asking you to forgive my actions, Lady Catelyn. I know now that what I did brought chaos in its wake, and I have suffered for my sins. But I hope you can come to understand why I did what I did.”

She looked toward Catelyn, wide-eyed. With that look, the spoiled and wilful indignation was gone and she was a naive young girl again. Catelyn felt a wave of sympathy wash over her. Since her own mother had passed away, she had grown up as the lady of the house, the one her father turned to, the one who made the decisions. Circumstances had empowered her and her sense of honour and duty had bound her, and so it was hard to imagine herself in Lyanna’s shoes. “Tell me…” she said.

Lyanna nodded and continued, her voice low, confidential and small, “My father was ever a stern man, and proud. He liked discipline and rules, but most of all he loved his honour. After my mother died, I was something he did not know how to deal with. In some things, he gave me tremendous freedom, and in others, he would come down like an iron fist. He sent Brandon and Ned away when he thought they were old enough to be warded elsewhere because he believed it was the right thing to do. And he wanted me married to a great southron house because he thought it would bring great power to the North.”

Catelyn remembered the deal her own father had brokered with Lord Arryn – all the Tully swords for Lysa’s stained hand and the impotent rage her sister had felt when she had been told of the arrangement.  

“I was told of the agreement once it had been forged. I protested, but he would not be moved. And when my father’s temper was on him, it could be a terrible thing. So I was trapped. I met Prince Rhaegar by chance at Harrenhal and he listened to me – really listened to me – like no man had ever done before. I suppose I loved him for that as much as anything. And so, for the first time in my life, I made a choice for my own benefit that was mine and mine alone. No-one had a hand in it but me, and for a time, that felt good. It felt like I had claimed some power for myself from the men in my life, and I was truly happy. And yet… now I find that the thing that had seemed so sweet is not so sweet as I had thought.”

“You are not happy with the Prince?”

“I want him to spare my brother’s life and I do not know that he will, not because he does not wish to please me, but because he feels he has to make a show. I love him dearly, but right now it feels--” She halted, hesitated. “It feels as if he is not the man I had thought he was. As if this crown that he must put upon his head is turning him into something else.”

She looked away and her eyes were distant. Catelyn was unsure, but she thought she could see tears glistening in them too.

For a moment she reflected on the irony of the situation. Lyanna had wanted empowerment and had ended up once again being trapped by the actions of the men in her life. “You feel torn between them.”

“Yes…What do I do? I do not know what to do.” There was a horrible desperation in her voice and a pleading look on her face. Catelyn could think of nothing to say and so she moved to embrace her.

But as she did, a sudden sensation of something trickling down her leg made her stop, and pause, and then the trickle became a gush and she heard Lyanna cry out. “My lady!”

Catelyn stared down at the ground beneath her feet, at the stone darkening with wetness. _Gods…It is starting._ She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak – she could only stare. One by one, her senses fled.

And then she felt a pair of gentle hands on her arms. “Catelyn, do not worry. There is nothing to worry about. It is just your babe. We shall get you a maester.”

She nodded dumbly. “Take my arm,” said the voice. “That’s it. Now, let’s walk slowly. It won’t take long.”

Catelyn did as she was bid and found herself being led back to her chambers. Once within, she sank onto the edge of the bed and the haze began to clear. Before her stood Lyanna Stark, her hands holdings hers, her face calm and her grey eyes soft with compassion. “The maester will be here soon. And do not worry about that either. His name is Luwin and he is the one Rhaegar has brought from the Citadel to save me from that snivelling creature Pycelle. From what I’ve seen of him, he is a good man and skilled in his science.”

Silent relief flooded through Catelyn at that and she gripped Lyanna’s hands tighter. “Will you stay with me?” she asked.

“Of course,” said Lyanna. “You are a Stark now.” 


	8. RHAEGAR - The Weight of the Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crown weighs heavy on the head of a new-made king and forces difficult decisions to be made that will change the face of the Seven Kingdoms forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep your minds open, readers...

RHAEGAR – The Weight of the Crown

 

It was early evening, and the Red Keep was hot and stifling. A little breeze was lifting through the arrow slits and open windows sending breaths of cool air shifting against the dense heat that hung heavy in the rooms and halls. Shade climbed sluggishly up the walls, and along the battlements, the guards stood as still as stone statues, squinting against the glare of the sinking sun.

Rhaegar Targaryen left his daughter’s room only once he was certain that Rhaenys was fast asleep. She had slept fitfully since she had been recovered from the streets of Flea Bottom, waking often from nightmares where she screamed and screamed until someone fetched him from his own slumber to comfort her. He hoped this night would prove to be more restful for her, for if things did not improve, he would have to seek the advice of a maester trained in the treatment of the mind, and he had hoped not to have to put his daughter through any more than she had already endured.

Sweat was sticky on his neck and damp along his spine and he pulled with irritation at the collar of his doublet until the lacing loosened to mid-chest. It was not yet late, but the day’s tasks were done and he was in need of food and rest. He had not eaten since breaking his fast at dawn.

As he made his way along the hallway from Rhaenys’ chambers to his own, he mulled over the raven he had sent to Stannis Baratheon at Storm’s End over a week ago. His offer had been plain enough: come to King’s Landing and there is a deal for you, stay in the Stormlands and be named traitor and charged thus. He did not wish to name another traitor, though. Eddard Stark, Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn were proving problematic enough on their own, without adding another to their ranks.

The door to his chambers was ajar, propped with a hefty chunk of dragonglass, and he frowned. Ser Oswell Whent stood at the open door, straight-backed and staring fixedly at the wall opposite him. “Ser Oswell,” he greeted. “Is everything all right?”

The knight turned to look at Rhaegar and replied, “Everything is fine, Your Grace.”

“Why is my door open?”

“The Lady Lyanna is overly warm, Your Grace. She wished for the door to be kept open so the breeze could flow through the rooms.”

Rhaegar smiled. Since he had brought her to the capital, Lyanna had complained often about the heat of King’s Landing being little better than it had been in Dorne, and these last few days had been hotter than most. He stepped within and scanned his eyes over the anteroom. The window at the far end was open wide and the thin drapes pulled closed to block out the sunshine that would have otherwise streamed within. The open door had indeed created a sort of funnelling effect and as he stood there, he felt a much more powerful gust of breeze rush over him than that which had tickled at his hairline out in the hallway. The doors to his sleeping chamber were also propped open and as he went through them, he saw Lyanna lying on her back on the bed in nothing but her cream silk underslip. Her shoes had been kicked off and lay at the foot of the bed, along with her dress. Her hands were flung above her head, her dark hair spread out on the white sheets, and her eyes shut.

For a moment he stood there and watched her, before the sight of her forced him to step nearer. She must have heard his footsteps, for she opened her eyes and turned her head towards the sound. “Rhae--” she started, but he cut her off, leaning down to kiss her.

“Shh,” he murmured against her mouth, and whilst barely breaking contact, he slid himself alongside her on the bed, so he was lying in shadow of her. She scooted up to allow him more space. “Were you asleep?”

“No, just resting. My back hurts.”

“It can do,” he said, meaning the comment as a comfort, but it was immediately clear that Lyanna did not take it as such. A frown lowered her brows and she looked away. “What is it, my love?”

She pouted. “You don’t have to remind me constantly that you have seen all this before, you know,” she told him. “I know you have.”

Blinking back his surprise at her reaction, he leaned away from her and shook his head. “I did not mean my remark to sound uncaring,” he said. “I was merely stating a fact. An aching back _is_ one of the problems with carrying a babe.” _What does she wish me to do? Ignore the truth? I have seen two babes born into this world and that cannot be denied._

“I know you were,” Lyanna sighed after a moment of tense silence. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little tired and irritable. This heat is driving me to distraction.”

“You seem to have made the best of the gathering breeze though,” he observed, waving a hand towards the open doors. “I am impressed.”

“It is rarely warm in the North and I used to think my brother was tiresome for complaining about it when we did have it, but now I find that I have as little stomach for it as he did… _does_ …” She paused as she corrected herself. “Have you thought more about what we talked about last night?”

Rhaegar shifted onto his back with a sigh and stared up at the painted ceiling above him where dragons chased across the plaster, their tails twisting and fire licking from their mouths. There was little point in side-stepping the issue with her, he knew. Since she had learned that Catelyn Stark had arrived in the city and pleaded for the lives of the rebel leaders, Lyanna had shown admirable temerity when arguing for her brother’s life. It was only his love for her that had stopped him from accusing her of nagging him to the point of irritation. So far he had managed to deflect her, but he had a feeling he was going to incur her wrath if he continued for much longer.

The truth behind his dallying was really rather base, and when he thought about it, he cursed himself inwardly. The longer he ignored the situation, the longer it was before he had to deal with it. In short, when it came to the issue of the rebel leaders, but in particular Eddard Stark, he was as craven as could be. It was not something he was proud of, but it was a fact.

“Lyanna--” he began.

“All I want you to do is to talk to him,” she interrupted, pulling herself up to a sitting position and looking down at him. “If you don’t speak to him, how can you know what he is thinking, and what he’s prepared to do?”

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Lya, please… I told you last night – I have not yet decided what I am doing with _any_ of the rebel leaders.”

“You can’t leave them in the dungeons forever,” she said.

“I know I cannot.”

“Then I don’t see why you are so unwilling…”

For a moment she sounded on the verge of tears, then she seemed to gather herself and instead, she straddled his hips. “You want to make me happy, don’t you?”

His eyes flicked open. She was smiling craftily. “Of course I want to make you happy,” he told her.

“And you know that if you spoke to my brother, that would make me very happy indeed…”

Her fingers went to the laces of his breeches and began to work, slowly, methodically. With every ounce of strength he had, he ordered his body not to respond, even as her knuckles grazed over him with deliberate firmness. He knew what she was doing and he was not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she could manipulate him in this way. He reached down to still her hands, but she twisted free of his grip and continued in her task. Three quick movements and she was inside his breeches, her hot little hand cupping his balls and her thumb rubbing along his length. _Gods…_

He threw his head back in frustrated objection as he felt himself harden. It was hopeless. He was so weak it was shameful.

“Very happy indeed…” she murmured. She pulled him gently out and then scooted down the bed and took him in her mouth.

Suddenly, his head was full of red heat, burning, burning, burning and the entire world had narrowed down to the two of them and the bed upon which they lay. His hands reached up to thread through her hair as he felt her tongue circling and her lips on him with a subtle pressure. Remembering that the doors were still open and Ser Oswell Whent was just two dozen paces away in the hallway, standing on guard, he stifled the urge to groan.

After a few moments, she paused and his eyes snapped open to find the reason for her stopping. She sat on her heels in the v of his thighs, her hands resting on his knees, looking down at him. He opened his mouth to ask her whether something was wrong, but instead she took him gently in her hands again and the words disappeared. “I want you to promise me something,” she said in a soft voice, her fingers playing along his length with agonising lightness. Her touch was like a breath of wind, a teasing scent, a murmur laden with temptation.

“What?” he heard himself say, on a breath.

“Oh, I think you know what…” She bent and kissed the tip of his cock, her tongue flicking out.

“Lya--” he tried again.

Abruptly, she pulled back and pressed her thumb into the underside of his cock and he felt conscious thought slipping away. “Promise me, Rhaegar,” she pleaded. “Promise me.”

She rose up above him, lifting her underslip over her head and then straddling him, lowering herself down onto him. Naked and beautiful, and with her belly full of his child, she kept her weight pressed down on him, forbidding him from moving, despite the desperate, primal urge he felt to do just that. It was near enough the most erotic thing he had ever experienced and he felt himself gathering to a conclusion even as she remained stiller than ice. Her eyes were fixed on him, though, and he knew what she wanted.

She had him like a fly in amber.

Slowly, he nodded.

A smile spread on her lips and she started to rock gently.

When they had finished, Lyanna eased herself away from him and sank down onto the featherbed beside him. They lay there, sleepy, sated and in silence, until her hand reached for his and she wove their fingers together until they were clasped tight. “Thank you,” she murmured eventually and he grunted in response.

A festering anger came over him at his own weakness, and he fell silent, contemplating the promise he had just made and the hundred and one other pulls there were on him. But, he did not move away from her nor make any effort to slip his hand from hers. No matter what she had done, he still felt _her_ pull the strongest.

He rolled his head towards the window. Through the gap in the drapes, he could see that twilight was coming over the city and the sky had dimmed from the brightest of blues to a hypnotic graded turquoise, pink and purple. Night clouds were nesting along the horizon and he could see the crescent moon already. He sighed.

Beside him, Lyanna shifted. “You are troubled, my love.”

“I have been troubled since this entire thing began, since my bloody father felt the need to murder your family, since Tywin Lannister stalked out of King’s Landing nursing his wounded pride, and since you sent your raven to me.” He paused, a frown appearing between his brows. “Since I read my great-grandfather’s diaries and learned of the prophecies that were told to him. I do not suppose the feeling shall end any time soon.”

For a moment, she said nothing, and he thought he had silenced her with his melancholic response, but then she said, “I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes, feeling the old familiar sense of doom descend on him once again. “If sorry could improve my mood, I would accept your words, my love. But it cannot. I know what I have just promised you, and I want to keep my word to you, but right now it feels like I am walking a high-wire and there are people around me on all sides, poking me with sticks. I know that one wrong step could send me tumbling down into the abyss and yet I have to keep going – I have to reach the other side.”

“The task is not so impossible,” Lyanna told him quietly. “Have faith.”

“Faith… yes…” he murmured, unconvinced. “You saw Stannis Baratheon arriving in the city this morning, I presume?”

She nodded.

“I spoke with him today and he has agreed to be my Hand. The Targaryen and Baratheon alliance is reawakened.”

Lyanna sat up, interested. “He has?”

“Yes. I began by just offering him the Handship, but he was undecided, so as I explained to you last night, I made the deal sweeter by telling him he could keep Storm’s End. It is his right, after all, and that seemed to turn things in my favour.” He allowed himself a small smile. “I am pleased, too. At the siege of Storm’s End, Stannis Baratheon proved his mettle, and his firm stance on justice and laws, combined with his prudence with financial matters must surely mean he will make a good Hand.”

“He is not so charismatic as Robert was though,” said Lyanna.

“I know that, but a Hand does not need to be. He needs to be a man who gets things done, who doesn’t back down. Stannis has shown me that he is both of those things, and more. As part of the deal, his brother Renly will be warded with the Tyrells. I am also contemplating suggesting to Lord Tywin that he approaches Stannis with a marriage offer. Lady Cersei is of an age now, and a marriage with the man who would be Hand of the King would, I think, pacify our Lord of Lannister, now that his heir has been returned to him.”

Lyanna looked down at him and shook her head slowly. “I thought Lord Tywin wanted _you_ to marry his daughter?”

“He did, but I do not want to return him to the level of power he had when he was Hand for my father. I fear that would be disastrous. However, I do not want to pit him against me either. I must needs keep him close, but not close enough to do harm. He is much too dangerous to ignore.”

Climbing to his feet, Rhaegar went to the door and pushed it closed. “Before the Trident, Varys told me that Lord Tywin was like a sleeping lion and that, at any moment, he might wake with a roar. He was convinced he was plotting something against my father and it was at his urging that I approached our Lord of Lannister with my deal to return his heir to him.” He chuffed a sardonic laugh. “I have often wondered what would have happened if I had not done so.”

Lyanna frowned as she watched him remove his doublet completely and hang it on the back of a chair, then sit on the edge of the bed to pull off boots and breeches. “It does not bear thinking about,” she murmured.

“No, I think you are right.” In just his linen undershirt, he went to her and took her face in his hands, smoothing her dishevelled hair back down and kissing her forehead. “You should go to bed, my love, if you are tired. I am going to read for a little while.”

“I am tired,” Lyanna admitted. For a moment, she appeared to hesitate and so he prompted,

“What is it?”

“Catelyn Stark has given birth today. I was with her through the birth.”

His hands fell away from her face and he straightened. This was news indeed. “Is the babe a boy or a girl?”

“A boy,” said Lyanna. “Lady Catelyn has yet to name him. But he is healthy and it was a straight-forward birth.”

Rhaegar hummed in his throat. Eddard Stark was a father, and in this single thing, the rebel leader had forced his hand and made all that Lyanna had done beside the point. There was a male heir to the North now, and heirs could be rallied around, months, years or even decades later. If he had been in any doubt before, now he could not be. The little child that now sucked at Catelyn Stark’s breast could be more dangerous than any plan hatched from the brain of Tywin Lannister. He had to act. “Where are mother and child?”

“In Lady Catelyn’s room in the Maidenvault being tended to by Maester Luwin.”

That caught his attention still more forcefully. “Luwin? I brought him from Oldtown for you, my love--”    

“I know you did, but I…” Her voice trailed off and she looked away from his unshifting gaze. “I wanted her to be safe, to be well-cared for… She is a Stark now.”

A Stark. The name echoed through his head. Whether he liked it or not, he was bound to the Starks now, and it seemed, not like to shake the association as long as he wished to have Lyanna beside him. “My lady, your devotion to your family is a rare thing indeed. Very well, Catelyn Stark may have your maester tend to her for as long as you do not need his attention.”

Lyanna smiled in return. “Thank you.”

He bid her goodnight then, with a kiss, then walked out to the anteroom and sat at his desk. He opened the drawer and pulled out the book he had been waiting to read for weeks now. It was a leather-bound tome filled with crinkled-edge parchment pages and vivid illuminations. It had come from Oldtown just prior to his leaving for the Trident, but he had not had much chance to study it since. He opened the heavy cover and began to read.

When next he looked up, it was because the light was growing thin and he could barely see the print clearly upon the page. He got to his feet and went to the window and looked out. Sure enough, the sun had sunk behind the low bank of clouds on the western horizon, turning them shades of red and orange. In its last failing light, the whole of King’s Landing crouched in the shadow of the Red Keep. Thin columns of smoke rose from chimneys beneath which evening meals were no doubt being cooked, and the thought made him realise that he had not eaten since morning. He called for some bread and cheese and returned to his desk until they were delivered by a kitchen maid with flaxen hair and a face full of freckles.

“Your Grace,” she said as she handed over the platter. “You should light a candle or you will strain your eyes.”

“Yes, mayhaps I should,” Rhaegar agreed.

She bowed her head and retreated, leaving him alone once more. He tore off a hunk of bread and sliced the corner from the wedge of cheese. He ate, but even as he ate, his mind kept turning towards what had haunted him since the Trident. When the bread and cheese was finished, he stood, brushed the crumbs from his shirt and then slipped back into the bedchamber.

Lyanna was asleep, partially propped up with pillows so she was in the most comfortable position her swollen belly could allow. He padded to the chair he had draped his breeches and doublet over and dressed as quietly as he could, finally pulling on his boots and reaching under the bed to draw out his longsword and dagger from the velvet wrap he kept them in when not needed.  

Outside his chambers, Ser Oswell Whent had been relieved by the White Bull and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard inclined his head towards him as he left but asked no questions, and so no lies were needed. Once he was outside in the dim still of late evening, he let his feet lead him across the courtyard to the Maidenvault. Two handmaidens were coming down the steps as he ascended and they paused to allow him passage, their heads bowed, but elsewise, there was no-one around. That pleased him. The last thing he wanted was an audience.

He found the door easily enough. A guard stood outside, but was dismissed with just a word, and Rhaegar pushed open the door and entered.

Candlelight filled the room with a dim glow. The window was ajar, but there was still a faint smell of blood in the air. She lay on the bed, eyes closed, asleep. Her thick auburn hair had been soaked with sweat but was now pushed back from her face and drying in the furrows made by a comb. She wore a white gown edged with grey embroidery, the Stark colours, while a thin silver necklace twinkled around her neck.

But it was the crib at the end of the bed that drew him.

Asleep and swaddled tightly in the softest muslin blankets was a babe with a downy head of hair the same colour as his mother’s. _He’s a Tully really_ , he thought, as he beheld the child. He thought of the night Rhaenys had been born, and the terrible colour she’d been when the maester had finally dragged her into the world, how they’d all thought she would not survive the night. This child was bigger, rounder, and altogether more hale and hearty. He was here in this world and there was nothing calling him away from it.   

For a long moment he stared down at the sleeping infant, then his fingers reached for his dagger and curled around the dragonbone hilt, drawing it from his belt.

In the flickering orange light, the blade glinted – Valyrian steel, it was, sharper than a dragon’s tooth and just as deadly.

 _How easy_ … His thoughts were speed and silence and a swift exit.

But as his hand moved, it moved slowly. Down he reached, into the crib, and with the lightest of movements, he slid the blade across the babe’s head.

The job done, he sheathed the dagger and reached down to collect the curl of red-brown hair he had severed. He held it up, pinched tight between him thumb and forefinger, and then placed it inside a thimble box.

With quiet steps, and the briefest of glances back at the sleeping woman and child, he left.

He went up to the battlements, and stood there for the longest time, watching as the light failed and the city sank into darkness. One by one, lamps and candles were lit and soon a hundred thousand of them glimmered in windows. Beyond the walls, though, it was blacker than ink. When in King’s Landing it was easy to forget that there were seven kingdoms out there.

All were his now, and a King should be a nation’s protector and guardian. _I have to do the right thing_ , he thought. _I have to._ _The cost is too much to choose unwisely._

A night breeze picked up from off the sea, coolly refreshing as it blew over his face and through his hair. _But am I doing the right thing? What if I am making a mistake?_ He recalled the image of the highwire and stepped to the edge of the battlements, peering through an embrasure to look down and down towards the rocky foundations upon which the Red Keep was built. The sea lapped lazily below. _One wrong step_ , he thought, _and I am doomed._ His mind was full, clamouring with doubts and questions and indecision. He wished devoutly that he was someone who didn’t agonise like this, that he was someone who knew, who did, who never hesitated. He thought of Robert Baratheon and his rage; the look in his eyes as they had faced one another in the shallow waters had been the look of a man bent on certainty, with a self-belief so absolute it eclipsed all else.

Rhaegar had never been that man and it seemed as if he had spent half his life wavering between choices, never certain on any path.

He sighed.

But there was no way back now. He knew that, and _that_ certainty was as pricking as the questioning doubt.

He had to choose.

He stepped back from the edge, turned and walked away, towards the squat round tower which housed the entrance to the dungeons.

The gaoler was drinking gin and water when he entered the antechamber; his cheeks were ruddy and his eyes blinked often as he tried to focus on his visitor. He had his worn leather boots resting on the surface of his desk but immediately pulled them down when he saw Rhaegar standing before him. “Your Grace,” he slurred and scrambled to his feet, concentrating hard to give the impression that he was in possession of all of his faculties, but failing entirely.

“Gaoler,” Rhaegar said in acknowledgement. “I wish to see the high-born captive by the name of Eddard Stark.”  

“Eddard Stark… of course, Your Grace.”

The gaoler turned and opened up an iron-banded wooden door, before leading the way within.  

On the first level, torches burned in sconces that lined the walls, but their light barely penetrated the gloom. The cells here were large and square, with high, narrow windows, and were fronted by thick iron bars. In the half darkness, shadowy figures stood gripping those bars, their restless eyes watching him. One or two jeered, but most were silent.

Rhaegar turned his gaze away from them, as the gaoler paused to secure the door behind them, feeling tension ripple through him. “Your Grace,” said one growling voice, and then his words were echoed by another, and another, and another, until soon a threatening chorus was following him down the corridor.

He walked a little faster, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

At the end of the corridor, another huge oak and iron door stood. The gaoler lifted the huge ring of keys from his belt again and opened it with a grunt. A spiralling stair led down into darkness that was broken only by the light from the torches on the walls.

Down they went, wordlessly, until they came to another door. This one had a round porthole cut into the wood. Another key was turned in the lock and the door swung open onto a wider corridor lit by a dozen torches, each one positioned opposite a great heavy door. There were portholes in these doors too, barred with iron rods, and from one or two came the sound of feet shifting on reeds.

Someone coughed and Rhaegar jumped.

His head snapped towards the sound, but there was nobody at any of the porthole windows. The gaoler noticed his unease and smiled a toothless smile at him. “Your Grace, these be the ‘igh-born pris’ners. They ‘ave been well-be’aved so far. It’s them ones you walked past upstairs who you oughta be worried about. They’s evil little cunts, they is.”

Rhaegar nodded and swallowed, straightening to give the impression of being at ease. “Where is he, then?”

“Last cell ont’ left, Your Grace. He’s been fed this evening as you instructed, Your Grace.”

“What has he eaten?”

“Cold cuts o’ meat, an’ bread, an’a piece o’ fruit,” the gaoler replied. Derisively, he spat a gobbet of spit onto the stone floor. “Strikes me these ones is eatin’ like they is at home in their castles not ‘ere in my prison.”

Rhaegar cast a cold look towards the gaoler. “It is my wish,” he said.

“An’ we will do whatever you wish, Your Grace.” He thrust his greasy head up to the porthole window in the last cell on the left and shouted, “Stark, you ‘ave a visitor. Best ged up off your shelf and greet ‘im as e’s the Prince!”

There was an urgent scrambling from within the cell as the gaoler pushed a key into the lock and opened up the door. “Leave the door open,” said Rhaegar, “and stand at the end of the hall to wait for me.”

The gaoler nodded and did as he was bid. Inside the cell, the darkness was pervasive and the torchlight flooding in from the hall did little more than enhance the shadows that now shifted and lurched before him.

Eddard Stark stood amidst those shadows, his beard and hair unkempt, and his skin greasy and streaked with dirt. He had lost weight since Rhaegar had seen him last, making his cheeks seem hollow and his sweat-stained clothing hang off him. But his eyes were unchanged - grey and unwavering, they looked right at him from across the cell, pinning him. _Lyanna’s eyes_ , thought Rhaegar, and met their steady gaze.

In a voice croaky with disuse, the man before him said simply, “Your Grace.”

“Lord Stark,” said Rhaegar in return. “It seems our paths are crossing again.”

There was a look of uncertain apprehension being carefully held in on Eddard Stark’s face. _Unsurprising_ , thought Rhaegar. _No doubt he is wondering why I am here and what business I have with him._

“The hour is late, Your Grace. What brings you here?”

Rhaegar entered the cell and paced the six paces to the far end, then turned around and saw that Stark had moved, as if the two of them were animals circling one another. He paused and looked down at his boots, nodding. “You have been quite the conundrum for me, Lord Stark. I have spent hours considering what to do with you.”

There was another, longer pause. Both men’s breathing seemed to roar in the silence and the air was thick and charged with something that seemed ready to catch fire. “And what have you decided?” asked Stark, the thinnest of telling quavers in his voice. For the first time, Rhaegar thought that this man seemed like barely more than a boy. He was a man grown, of course, and this last year had hardened him, but it had all happened so quickly that there had not been time for him to grow into his skin, and beneath the tough shell he had created for himself was a soft, vulnerable thing.

“Your sister, and indeed your lady wife, have both pleaded for your life--”

“Catelyn is still here?” interrupted Stark. He took a step towards Rhaegar, his fists curling impotently at his sides.

“She came to challenge me and I confess that I have not given her a clear answer to her plea yet, so she has remained in King's Landing. It seems you have made rather a habit of surrounding yourself with gutsy women, Stark. But do not be concerned, both your sister and your wife are safe and well in the Red Keep. In fact, your wife gave birth to your son earlier today.” At those words, the expression on Eddard Stark’s face shifted and his eyes lit from within in an instant. Rhaegar swallowed the smile that ghosted along his lips. “Mother and child are healthy and thriving, I am told.”

He reached into the pocket of his breeches and removed the thimble box. With another step towards this man he had imprisoned, he held out the box. “This is for you.”

Stark took the box. “What is this?” he asked, turning it over in his hands suspiciously.

“It’s a peace offering, if you like… if you will accept it.”              

Frowning, Stark opened the box and stared down at the contents. Then, slowly, the light of comprehension dawned on his face and he smiled. “This is a lock of my son’s hair.”

“It is,” confirmed Rhaegar.

“Why… why would you give me this?”

“Because I have a deal for you to consider, Lord Stark, and because I think it is time for action instead of inaction. I have a task ahead of me that arguably no Targaryen has faced since the Blackfyre Rebellion, or even since Aegon himself first landed in Westeros. I must act wisely if I am to secure the throne and bring peace back to the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Peace? You speak of peace after all that has happened?”

“Yes, I do,” Rhaegar asserted, his voice firm. “I know you have spoken with your sister and I know she has told you the truth behind her fleeing. All I did was offer her refuge.” He paused. “I love her, Lord Stark, and I would do anything for her, including defying my father. He ordered me to return to King’s Landing, but I did not answer his summons and instead I plotted his undoing with one of the most dangerous lords in Westeros.”

“You--” Stark’s voice trailed off.

Rhaegar nodded. “I kept my hands clean, but it was my words, my actions, that slew the Mad King.” Their eyes met and Eddard Stark’s surprise was obvious. “I am not proud of it. However you look at it, I committed patricide,” Rhaegar added. “But it was a necessary evil.”

“Your father killed my father and brother.”

“And I am truly sorry. His actions were those of a man not in his right mind. I had suspected that his mind was failing him for some time, but I had not anticipated that he would do something so… rash… so foolish.”

“You should have known,” said Stark, anger peppering his tone. “You should have made it your business to know.”

Rhaegar stopped in his pacing and turned to face the man whose cell he now shared, feeling a surge of indignation rise inside him at the injustice of that comment. “Would it be right to blame _you_ for _your_ brother’s foolish hot-headedness, or indeed your sister’s wilfulness? No, of course not. No man can truly know another man’s heart and mind, no matter how well he claims to know him, and it is hardly fair to ascribe blame for one person’s actions upon another, even if they are family or as good as family.” He paused. “Which is why I am standing here talking to you, Lord Stark, and not cutting off your head. You are not Robert Baratheon.”

Stark opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. He huffed. “Mayhaps,” he said with some reluctance. “What is this deal you would offer me?”

Rhaegar stepped forward until he was standing just two paces away. “You are valuable to me, my lord, and I will not pretend otherwise. There are seven kingdoms in Westeros and the North is as big as the rest combined. I would return to you to your seat, Lord Stark, for I have use for you.”

“Use for me?”

“Lyanna carries my child, as you know, and we intend to wed in the next few days. When the babe is older, I think it would serve well if he, or she, experienced a little part of the North, for the blood of the North will be mixed with the blood of the dragon. _This_ child is the song of ice and fire the prophecies tell of, I am sure of it, and must be raised to know both. To that end, I would have my son or daughter ward with you, my lord. If you would promise me that, I would return you to your seat and have you rule the North for me. There is a place for you in the tale.”

Eddard Stark stood as still as winter, staring, staring at Rhaegar with shock and amazement in his eyes. Rhaegar willed him to say something – anything – to stir the silence again. “You want me to promise to take your child as my ward?”

“Yes.”

“And for that you will release me and let me return to Winterfell and the North?”

“You sound disbelieving…”

Stark shook his head. “I, I am, Your Grace. Of the dozen different fates I had imagined you might have in line for me, this was not one of them, I confess. And so I am wary. There must be something else you want from me…”

“Oh, there is,” He fixed the Lord of Winterfell with a look of uncompromising firmness. “Bend the knee, Lord Stark, and acknowledge me as your King. Bend the knee.”  


	9. EDDARD - Love and Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned is faced with the most difficult choice of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I stole the chapter title from my good friend DKNC's tremendous story Love and Honor. Except I've put a 'u' in honour. Because that's how you spell it! ;)

EDDARD – Love and Honour

 

“And what if I don’t?”

Rhaegar Targaryen’s face was stone. His purple eyes flashed as Ned’s words and the skin around them crinkled. “If you don’t?” he repeated.

“If I don’t,” confirmed Ned.

“If you don’t, I shall serve you blood and fire, Lord Stark, regardless of who your sister is and what her wishes are. Make no mistake, this is a deal and my patience only stretches so far. Go to your knees and I will help you back to your feet, but defy me and you shall learn what it is to be a traitor to the crown.” He paused. “I shall give you a day and night to think about it and I shall expect your answer at sunrise tomorrow.”

“What of my compatriots, the Lords Arryn and Tully?”

“The same shall be offered to them,” said Rhaegar. “Never let it be said that I am not fair in that respect. Goodnight, Lord Stark. I wish you a pleasant night’s sleep.”

And with those words, the Prince of Dragonstone was gone. The great oaken door closed behind him and Ned was plunged once again into darkness. For a long moment, he stood frozen in position, staring at the now closed door, too stunned to even move. In the silence that now enveloped him, his breathing sounded absurdly loud.

Gradually, though, it seemed that his body’s function came back to him bit by bit. He swallowed hard and moved to the stone shelf upon which his blankets were spread. The torchlight from the hallway fell brightest here, and as he perched on the edge, he found himself turning over the thimble box in his hands, the pads of his fingers playing across the carving etched into the ebony – it was a Targaryen three-headed dragon.

He opened the box and looked again at the lock of red hair contained within.

Suddenly, it occurred to Ned why Rhaegar had given him this gift. He had believed it to be a gesture of good will, a peace offering, as the Prince had called it, but no, it was far more strategic than that. It was a reminder of what he might throw away if he refused the deal that had been put forth.

An heir, a wife and a child. A family. A second chance.

Ned snapped the box closed. His head drooped and he felt his eyes prickle. He pressed his fists into them in frustration, as if he could somehow force the sensation back. The Targaryen Prince had played with him and struck him at his weakest spot. Ned had lost so much in this uprising that the idea of having the chance to build another family was as addictive as the thought of it being snatched away from him was destructive. The unfairness of it all made him shake. He wanted to cry out, to shout, to storm about his cell and kick at the walls and door until someone thought he was going quite mad. But even as the desire surfaced in him, it died, and his fury froze in his throat so that no sound came out.

He sobbed dry tears into his hands.

That night passed slower than any night Ned had yet lived. The sleeplessness that had dogged him the night before the Trident was upon him and it didn’t seem to matter how long he lay with eyes closed, he simply could not fall asleep. His mind was too full. And so he lay there on the hard stone shelf that was his bed, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling above him and thinking endless poisonous thoughts.

Never before had his future been so irrevocably in his own hands. At its basest level, he knew it was a simple matter of choice, but that choice was a battle between the things that Ned valued the most, between love and honour, between family and pride.

It was the kind of choice he had hoped to never have to make his entire life, and yet here he was, just shy of his nineteenth name day, and being asked to make that choice.

He rolled onto his side and curled his body as best he could, but he had lost so much weight that his hip bones dug into the stone surface and he ended up returning to his back after just a few moments. He sighed and closed his eyes again and prayed for sleep to take him.

The night crept by in silence and slow time.

He must have slept, though, for when he next opened his eyes, he heard the sound of movement coming from the darkness. Confused, he sat up with a start and squinted into the shadows. Was somebody there? At first he could see nothing then, slowly, a formless figure drifted towards him, taking shape before his very eyes.

“Father?”

His father stood before him, as indistinct as a shifting shadow. _I am dreaming,_ he thought _. Gods, I am surely dreaming. My father is dead, burnt, gone. He is not in this prison cell with me now._

Ned closed his eyes.

 “Blind fool,” said the shade of his father and his stern voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. “Open your eyes and look at me, Ned. See me.”

_Go away_ , he thought. _Leave me!_ But he opened his eyes nonetheless.

His father shook his head at him and went on, “Look at yourself, rotting in this forsaken pit. In what world could you ever win this? Understand that you are beaten and do what you need to do to keep the Stark name alive.”

“Father…” he began again, an objection forming in his throat but just as quickly vanishing as he drew in his next breath.

“You are a Stark, Ned, and you know our words.”

“Winter is coming,” he murmured in reply. He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Maybe it has already come.”

“Do not be foolish, of course it has not,” his father told him sharply. “This is little more than a brief snap of cold. Summer will soon be upon us again. Or it will be if you choose right. Remember the last King in the North, remember Torrhen Stark. You went to war for your family. Now you must make peace for your family.”

Ned opened his mouth to reply, but as he did, another figure came towards him, melting out of the shadows.

It was Robert. He looked as he had looked before this all began, youthful and bold, with a grin on his face like he could never have been suppressed. Oh, how Ned missed his friend! “Never trust a Targaryen!” roared Robert. “They will lie and cheat and double-cross you when you dare to place your trust in them.” He stepped forwards, right through the shifting form of Rickard Stark. “And never bend the knee! Where is your pride, Ned? Your honour? You told me that you wanted justice for your father and brother. Does this feel like justice?”

“Robert, I… I have nothing left.” He sighed. “There is no more fight in me. I want to go home.”

Robert shook his head; such a thing meant little to him. “Home,” he scoffed. “A fool’s dream.”

And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone, and Ned was alone once more.  

For a long moment, he sat perfectly still, while he listened for any little sound and questioned what he’d truly seen and what he’d dreamed.

“Home,” he murmured finally to himself. That much _was_ true. He did want to go home. He was tired of dank dungeons, of endless darkness and questions he did not know the answer to. He wanted to see the North again and he wanted to care for his fledgling new family and _live_.  

And if that was what he wanted, there was only one way to get it. He must bend the knee.

Ned was asleep when he heard the gaoler’s key in the lock; at first, the sound seemed part of his dream as well, but when a rough hand took him by the shoulder and shook him, he knew that he was awake and the gaoler was real. “Get up, Stark.”

Ned scrambled to a seated position and looked up at the gaoler’s face, cast into sharp relief by the light of the burning torch he held. It was not the same man who had closed the door on him the night before but another, although in appearance there was little between them. This one still stank of drink and had a wine-reddened complexion. Ned wondered if mayhaps it was the sights they saw in these cells that drove these men to their cups.

“You are wanted by the Prince,” continued the gaoler. He carried a tooled iron and oak spear, the head crafted into a twisting spike presumably designed to deliver a more horrific injury than a regular spear. “But you will not see ‘im like this. You’re going for a bath.”

That news was almost as welcome as anything Ned had heard in a long while. He could not remember the last time he had bathed and no doubt he smelled worse than his gaoler.

He waited while the iron manacles at his ankles were loosened and then he stepped free of them, silently revelling in the freedom of movement their removal granted him.

The gaoler instructed him to come and Ned did as he was bid, following the gaoler out of the cell and along the torch-lit hallway. They climbed a spiral run of steps, passed through several thick oaken doors, and then walked another hallway until they came to a final door. When this one was opened, morning light streamed through and hit him like a crossbow bolt to the chest. Accustomed as he was to the darkness of his cell, the brightness was dazzling and Ned stumbled and almost went down, but the gaoler had him by the back of his tunic.

“Watch yer step,” said the gaoler gruffly as he released him and pointed along what was a low-walled walkway that headed towards a squat round tower. “That’s where we’re ‘eading. The bath’ouse.”

Squinting against the light, Ned stepped gingerly forwards, keeping his head down as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. The air was warm and a thousand smells accosted him, each one as unfamiliar as the next. He wanted to stop and turn and drink it all in, but he knew if he dared to pause, the gaoler would have no concern about sticking him in his back with that ugly spear he held.

Inside the tower, another spiral stair led down to the lower levels. It was cooler within, and the light was lower. After the glare of sunshine outside, it seemed as black as his cell had been, although Ned knew that was not true.

The bathhouse was a circular room with plain stone walls and a tiled floor. The communal bath was in the centre, its waters steaming gently. Another man was soaping up already, but when he saw Ned and the gaoler, he quickly rinsed himself and climbed out. _Presumably he does not wish to share his water with a traitor_ , thought Ned.

The gaoler set his torch in one of the empty sconces that lined the wall and took a seat beneath it. Assuming his bath was going to be watched, Ned began to undress. His clothing was stiff and heavy from the accumulation of dirt and sweat on it and once it had been removed, it felt like he had shed half his body weight. He climbed down the stone steps that led into the bath and submerged himself up to his neck in the water. Ned was not the kind of person who revelled in pleasure or even particularly sought out pleasurable activities, but this was an experience he would gladly have repeated every day for the rest of his life.

There were stone seats beneath the water along the sides and he let himself slide down onto one. As he sat there, he could almost feel the tension soaking away from him. The gaoler had left a bar of soap on the side of the bath and Ned reached for it, rubbing it between his hands to get up a lather before using it to attack the months of dirt that clung to him like a second skin.

He was scrubbing hard at his arm when he heard the door click open and heeled boots sound on the tiled floor. He looked up with a start. Ser Arthur Dayne stood there in full Kingsguard armour, his purple eyes fixed on him. The knight held a sackcloth bag with which he gestured at Ned, who felt suddenly and painfully aware of his nakedness. “Lord Stark,” he greeted. “I apologise for the intrusion. I am here to bring you some fresh garb and to see that you are brought to Prince Rhaegar in a timely fashion.”

Ned stumbled over a thank you. He glanced at the gaoler, who appeared to be asleep in his chair. It hadn’t mattered about _his_ presence as he was washing and undressing, but Ser Arthur Dayne was another matter entirely. He felt an involuntary blush colouring his cheeks.

Ser Arthur smiled. “I will wait for you outside the door, Lord Stark. Wash and dress quickly, though. You would not wish to keep your audience waiting.”

“My audience?” Ned was stunned. Rhaegar wanted him to do this in front of an audience? That was surely rubbing salt into the wound.

“Yes, my lord. Prince Rhaegar has gathered together some of the most prominent members of court.” He paused. “Your own wife will be there.”

“Catelyn will be there?” asked Ned, his shock deepening. It was enough that he was going to have to bend his knee before an audience, but to do it before his lady wife… Did Rhaegar wish to dispense with all of his pride and honour?

“Of course,” confirmed Ser Arthur.

Ned sighed. He had no choice in this, he knew. He only wished the Prince could have been a little more understanding. Catelyn did not need to see him laid so low – she barely knew him.

Ser Arthur placed the sackcloth bag on the side of the bath, out of the way of the damp, and left. For a long moment, Ned stared after him, the bar of soap still clutched vaguely in his hand. He recalled the strange dream he had experienced the night before, where his father had stood as large as life before him and reminded him of how Torrhen Stark had bent the knee before Aegon the Conqueror amid the chaos of the Field of Fire, with his Northmen at his back. If his ancestor had been that courageous, then Ned could do the same thing before his lady wife and a throne room full of Royalist supporters.

The gaoler gave a grunt in his sleep and the noise drew Ned from his thoughts. With a deep breath in, he went back to washing the dirt from his skin and hair.        

The throne room was packed with bodies. Men, women and soldiers stood in clusters or lines, and the hum of conversation was loud. Through the throng, Ned could see the Iron Throne on its dais, a great metallic behemoth made of the thousands of swords laid down before Aegon.

It was not Aegon, though, who sat upon the throne now. It was Rhaegar Targaryen, Aerys II’s eldest son and the Prince of Dragonstone, uncrowned king of the Seven Kingdoms. Ned had seen illustrations of Aegon, but as far as he could see, the only similarities between the man who had conquered Westeros and the man who now ruled were silvery hair and a fine-boned, sculptured profile. Where Aegon’s gaze had been fierce, Rhaegar’s was cool and almost dispassionate, as if every emotion he possessed was kept tightly under lock and key. In build, the pictures showed that Aegon had been broad-shouldered and muscular, but Rhaegar was slim and lithe; in fact, Robert had often joked about how the Prince of Dragonstone looked barely strong enough to hold a lance, let alone wield one with the skill and dexterity he was known for. Rhaegar’s long legs were crossed at the ankles and he was leaning forward and to the side, one elbow resting on the throne with an almost casual air. Before him, in an arc of white enamelled scales, stood Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Jonothor Darry and Ser Gerold Hightower, their right hands on the hilts of their swords.

But it was the face to Rhaegar’s right that drew Ned.

Lyanna sat upon a padded throne seat with a high back, her dark hair braided in a Northern style, her face as beautiful as it had always been. She wore the Stark colours, grey with white trimmings, and she was so heavy with child even sitting looked uncomfortable. Rhaegar was leaning towards her, and as Ned looked to her, hoping to catch her gaze, the Prince turned his head and whispered something to her, whereupon she smiled and nodded.

“Bring the prisoners forwards,” called the Prince in a carrying voice.

Silence came into the throne room at his words and every head turned towards the main doors.

Ned could feel his heart thumping like a war drum in his chest, and in the silence, his breathing sounded horribly loud. He was flanked on either side by guards from the City Watch, while Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard stood in front of him. Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully were several paces behind him, with more guards at their sides. If any of them had been harbouring a hope of breaking free, there was no chance of doing so and surviving.

The crowd of people had naturally formed a kind of aisle down the centre of the throne room and as Ned was led up it, he saw their stares. They weren’t hostile exactly, more mistrustful, but they were nonetheless unnerving. Lyanna was sitting forwards, one hand resting on her swollen belly, and her eyes were now fixed on him too.

The walk towards the Iron Throne seemed longer than it had any right to be. The silence grew more excruciating with every step he made. Someone in the crowd coughed and Ned heard the collective sound of a hundred heads turn towards the culprit. He glanced up and that was when he saw Catelyn, standing in the first row of faces. She was pale and drawn, but there was no mistaking that auburn hair. She watched him as he walked and he lowered his head, as if somehow that might hide his shame from her.

When he reached the dais, he looked up to see Rhaegar staring down at him. The Prince got to his feet as Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn were brought either side of Ned. He stood at the top of the wide steps that led down, a silent figure in black.

Ned waited for him to speak.

“Eddard Stark, Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn,” said the Prince. “You stand accused of high treason, of rebelling against the Crown and plotting to overthrow the King. Do you deny this accusation?”

Ned afforded the briefest of glances at his compatriots. Hoster Tully was already shaking his head, but Jon was staring straight ahead, wordless and motionless. Ned turned back to the Prince. “No,” he said.

“And you are aware, I presume, of the price of such a crime? Beheading is the most merciful option, I am sure you are aware. House Targaryen does not look kindly upon those who rise in open defiance and in the past, the costs of such follies have been vast.” Rhaegar paused. His eyes flickered towards Jon Arryn, then he looked back at Ned and Hoster Tully. He spread his arms and addressed them all. “My ancestor, Aegon I, once said that when your enemies defy you, you must serve them fire and blood, but when they go to their knees, you must help them back to their feet, or no man will think to follow you.”

Slowly, Rhaegar descended the steps of the dais and came to stand a few paces away from Ned. He was close enough now that Ned could see his eyes were not purple but more indigo, and the cold detachment in them cut like a knife. This was a man who was putting on a show, who was projecting an image of power and control, he was sure of it, but the efficiency with which it was being done was a feat worthy of admiration.

The Prince continued, “That is what I say to you now, my lords, and I ask you, will you bend the knee or will you continue to defy?”

As Rhaegar’s question died, it fell utterly silent in the throne room once more. It seemed to Ned like every single body in the room was holding its breath.

The silence lasted.

A beat. Then another, and another.

Ned heard movement to his left and turned his head to see Hoster Tully sinking down on one knee, his head bowed. “Your Grace,” said the Lord of Riverrun, “my sins are great, but I ask for your forgiveness and beg that you might let me live. You are the King.”

As one, the crowd drew in a breath. Rhaegar nodded but said nothing. His eyes turned to Ned.

Ned’s stomach turned and suddenly there was the taste of bile in his mouth. He glanced around himself. Lyanna was looking down at him, an expression on her face that was half way between pain and anxiety. She met his gaze and mouthed _do it_ to him. He turned to look at Jon Arryn, but his friend and mentor was staring straight ahead and did not see Ned’s silent plea for counsel. Then, very quietly, from out of the crowd, stepped Catelyn.

A pair of guards reacted instantly and drew their swords, stopping her in her tracks.

_No, no, no,_ thought Ned. _What is she doing?_

He stared at her, willing her to step back into the safety of the crowd. But she simply stood there, her chin raised in steady, certain defiance. There was something in her eyes that moved him.

“My lord,” she said simply and bowed her head to him.

It was an open expression of support and it was enough.

With his head filled with visions of fire and blood, of Targaryen might coming crushing down on everything he held dear, of dragon skulls turned from ages cold bone to living, breathing flesh, and Torrhen Stark, on his knees before Aegon, Ned sank shaking to the floor.

He raised his head and pleaded silently with the man who now stood before him. _Don’t make me speak, for if you do, my voice will not hold. I am on my knees. Let that be enough._

Silence, then Rhaegar Targaryen held out his hand. Ned looked at him. The action was plain. He reached for the hand and let his new king help him to his feet.

“Give these men rooms,” said Rhaegar to a steward standing off to his right, as he helped Hoster Tully to rise as well. “And see that they are fed and clothed appropriately for their station. Their families may see them also. On the morrow, we shall discuss what roles I would wish of them.” He turned then to Jon Arryn, who was still standing and still staring straight ahead. “And now to you, Lord Arryn. I see you remain standing.”

Jon Arryn’s jaw worked and he said simply, “I do.”

“Why is that, my lord?” Rhaegar’s voice was chilly.

“Because I am no lord of yours, Rhaegar Targaryen. What you ask of me means that I must forsake my honour, and I will not do that.”

Ned and Hoster Tully had been led away from the dais and now stood alongside the free men and women of the audience. Ned looked to the man who had been a second father to him for a dozen years and felt a sinking feeling inside. He had known that Jon Arryn was a proud man, but he had not thought his pride would bring him to this.

Rhaegar sighed and frowned. “Why do you hate me so, Lord Arryn?”

“I have no sons,” said Jon. “No children of mine own seed, and you took from me the only one who was such to me. Robert Baratheon was killed by your hand and if I bend the knee to you now, I sully his memory and tarnish my honour. I will not do that.” He stared directly at Rhaegar. “Your father committed terrible acts of cruelty and terror and I cannot forgive you that. You should have done something. You spoke to me before Harrenhal of doing just that and then… nothing. No action. Only inaction.” Jon spread his hands in an encompassing gesture. “And so the Seven Kingdoms bled and we stand here now amid the most almighty mess. No, Rhaegar Targaryen, I will not bend the knee and I will not follow you. You are no king of mine.”

Rhaegar swallowed and for the briefest of moments, Ned saw his cool exterior slip and anger flash hotly in his eyes. “Such concerns have not stopped the lords Tully and Stark,” observed Rhaegar.    

 “That may be,” replied Jon, “but I am no Stark or Tully. I am an Arryn and when I swore myself to Robert and his rebellion, I never meant to look back. Kill me if you will and I will die a man of honour; there is nothing left in this life for me.”    

Ned tried to catch Jon’s eye, but failed. His back was straight, his face firm and expressionless, and Ned knew then that this was it; there would be no reasoning with him, no bartering and no deals. Rhaegar seemed to sense that hopelessness and his frown deepened. His shook his head slowly. “Very well, Lord Arryn. I had hoped there would needs be no further blood spilt, but you give me no choice.” He turned to his right and addressed a tall, lean man with a dark face and still darker eyes. “Ser Orwyll, bring me his head.”

The crowd shifted and a crescendo of comments began to build until the throne room was alive with noise. A pair of guards dragged a headsman’s block in through the side doors while another two stepped forwards and grabbed Jon by the shoulders. Ned watched hopelessly as the Lord of the Eyrie was hauled to the block and pushed down onto his knees before it. One of the guards shoved Jon forwards until his head hung over the edge of the block, his greying brown hair falling forwards to part obscure his face, then put his foot on Jon’s back to stop him moving or attempting to get up.

A moment passed. Orwyll drew his longsword and the blade flashed in the sunlight filtering in through the high, narrow windows. Silently, he positioned himself to Jon’s right, then raised the sword above his head. The blow would be quick, Ned knew, and the sword sharp, but he wished he did not have to stand and watch it. He glanced quickly at the Prince, who was at the foot of the dais. The iron look was back on Rhaegar’s face.

“Do you have any last words?”

Jon did not tilt or turn his head, but his voice rang out clear and loud in the throne room. “Damn you, Rhaegar Targaryen.”

The curse drew no reaction from the Prince, and he nodded to the headsman Orwyll. With a single stroke, the longsword descended, and Jon Arryn’s head went rolling to the floor.

Ned turned away as the blood began to pool beneath the block. He wondered if he had done the right thing, or if he should have died with Jon, but even as the question rose in his mind, he knew his choice had been the right one. He took in a deep breath and swallowed and turned back to the scene before him. A group of men was already clearing away the block and the body, and another two were lifting the head into a basket – no doubt it would be mounted on a spike above the gates by the evening.

The crowd had stirred again. Some were starting to leave, the show over in their eyes, while others were hanging back to see the final throes of action. Rhaegar stared for a long moment at the pool of blood that was soaking slowly into the floor, before turning with a sigh to climb the steps back up the dais.

And then there was a cry. It was a woman’s cry, and it was sharp and filled with fear. Ned’s head snapped up and he saw Lyanna standing before her seat, one hand on her belly, the other grabbing in panic at her skirts. Her face was the colour of snow. Beneath her, spreading rapidly over the stones was an ocean of blood…     


	10. LYANNA - A Bed of Blood - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna faces the reality of her situation.

LYANNA – A Bed of Blood – Part One

 

“Fetch the maester! Now!” Rhaegar’s voice carried over the increasing din, but Lyanna barely heard it. All she could feel was the gushing of blood and the terrifying pain, as if something evil had grasped her belly in iron pincers and was squeezing and squeezing. She looked down at the ground and when she saw the spreading flood of red, she wavered and for a moment found herself swimming in blackness.

Then suddenly Rhaegar was at her side. She could feel him holding her up and his grip brought her back from sinking. “Lya,” she heard him say. “Lya, look at me. Keep your eyes open and look at me.” There was an iron tone to his voice, the same tones he used when he was speaking to those he wanted to obey him and she felt herself compelled to meet his gaze.

“What is it?” she gasped. “What’s happening?”

Vaguely, she was aware of the sound of voices shouting for the room to be cleared, but they sounded like echoes coming through water.

Rhaegar did not answer her, but looked away and searched the room. As he did, another face swam into view and Lyanna realised that Ned was standing beside her; she could see the anxiety behind his stony expression. He offered no words of comfort or explanation, but turned to Rhaegar and bid him to get her to her seat.

“Yes, of course,” said Rhaegar and between them they helped her sit back down. Another wave of pain gripped her as she sat and she cried out, sinking down onto the chair and leaning into Rhaegar. “My love?” His voice was urgent with concern.

Unable to reply as the pain tightened in her belly, she nodded. When it released, she looked up at him and pleaded with him for some help. “Where’s the maester?” she managed to breathe.

“He has been sent for,” Rhaegar explained. He smoothed her hair back off her face and knelt before her, taking her hands in his. “Breathe in slowly and deeply.”

She did as she was bid and, slowly, some of the cloudiness that had been descending on her cleared. The room had been emptied of the crowds and now there was just a small group huddled around her – Ned, Rhaegar and three men of the Kingsguard.  

“The Maester!” shouted Ser Arthur Dayne.

Everyone turned and Lyanna saw that the doors to the throne room had been opened and the little maester Rhaegar had brought from Oldtown was rushing up the aisle, his robes billowing behind him.

Immediately, he began looking her over, laying the flat of his palm against her cheeks and forehead, looking into her eyes and feeling for her heartbeat at her wrist. “Tell me what happened, my lady?” he asked.

Her head was still woolly, but Lyanna managed to reply, “I don’t know. There was nothing and then…” She looked down at the blood that was now staining the ground in front of her and the folds of her skirts. “I just felt a ripping sensation, this horrible pain and then it was there.”

“Hm,” said Luwin. “Did it start slowly or more suddenly?”

“It was sudden.”

“And has it stopped now? The pain…”

“It’s… it’s eased a bit, but…” She looked down at her belly. “Will it come again?” The question was a foolish one, she knew, but fear had dimmed her wits.

“I’m afraid the pain is not over, my lady,” Luwin said, almost apologetically. “I do not wish to alarm you, but it is about to get much worse.”

He turned to Rhaegar. “Your Grace, we need to get her to her chambers. I will need to examine her… more thoroughly… before I can make any conclusions. I suspect she is in the early stages of labour, but this blood is worrying me.” He paused. “I have a novice with me, a man studying for his links, who has done particularly well in the art of healing. While studying for his silver link, he greatly impressed Maester Ebrose. He has some unique and often interesting thoughts. Might I be allowed to permit him to also examine Lady Lyanna?”

“Of course, of course,” said Rhaegar distractedly. “Anything that might help.” He tugged on Luwin’s sleeve and pulled him aside. “Is it bad?” He was whispering, but his voice was so familiar to Lyanna she could have identified it over a crowd.

The maester glanced over at her. “I cannot say much at this stage, Your Grace. Bleeding during childbirth is common, and Lady Lyanna does not appear to be in danger yet. However, it is clear that something is amiss. There should not be blood on this scale or at this stage.”

Rhaegar closed his eyes, as if summoning some internal place of calm, and nodded. “Do whatever you need to do, maester,” he said.

They wanted to carry her to her chambers, but Lyanna would not allow them. Instead, she walked, supported between Ned and Rhaegar. When they reached her chambers, Luwin asked them both to wait without and, reluctantly, they did as they were bid, leaving her alone with her handmaiden, Jessy, Maester Luwin and his novice. A quiet man, the novice was taller than Luwin by almost a head and younger by some ten years. His hair was near as grey as Luwin’s though, which served to make him seem closer in age to his guide. He wore robes of brown roughspun with a black band tied around the waist. As Jessy helped Lyanna out of her dress and then onto the bed, he smiled in a kindly manner at them both, but then stepped forward and took the item from the girl, laying it flat on the ground before examining the blood stains closely, even going so far as to lift the material to his mouth and taste the blood. Lyanna wrinkled her nose, wondering what he was seeking to know.

When he raised his head, he called Luwin to him and they began a hushed conversation. Lyanna, hating the feeling of being talked about out of her earshot, felt indignant anger boil over. She sighed loudly. “What is it?” she demanded when the novice picked up her dress and passed it to Luwin to study himself. “Tell me! You are talking about me, are you not?”

Luwin turned to her, the expression on his face almost pitiful. “We are, my lady,” he said. “But I did not wish to alarm you.”

“You alarm me more by excluding me! I hate this thing men do where they think women are too delicate for the truth.” She looked them both in the eye. “Tell me.”

“I believe your placenta – the means the child within you has of maintaining its life source – has ripped away from the wall of your womb, my lady,” explained the novice. “It may only be a partial detachment, hence the reason why the bleeding has slowed, but if this is indeed the reason, it is unlikely to stop.” He swallowed audibly. “The best thing we can hope to do is to get your child born soon, or we risk having a stillbirth.”

A stillbirth. The words sounded like a war horn in Lyanna’s head and she struggled to sit up, palms flat on the sheets. “What? No… I cannot…”

“I’m afraid it is a very grave possibility, my lady,” said the novice with a shake of his head.

“No, there must be something you can do… Anything. This child cannot die!” She couldn’t help the panic from creeping back into her voice and the volume increase.

The door swung open and Rhaegar marched within. Clearly he had been standing just beyond the door listening to the conversation going on within. His face was darker than a thundercloud as he faced Maester Luwin and the novice with flashing eyes. “One of you tell me the truth – is the child in danger?” he asked in a low, gathering voice.

Both men looked at one another, then Luwin replied, “If what I suspect has happened, the child could be born dead, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar looked around the room. Lyanna had seen men at the edge of despair replace the feeling with anger and for a moment, it looked as if Rhaegar was doing just that, then he seemed to draw himself in again and he came to sit on the bed beside her. He took her hands in his own and turned them over to study their palms. She listened to his breathing, slow and deliberate, and to the growing silence.

Finally, he spoke: “You know what this child is, don’t you?” he said to her, his tone confidential. “You remember what I told you? I thought it was Aegon, my first son, but… but it could not have been. This must be the child.” He plucked up one of her hands and placed it over her swollen belly. Lyanna could feel the tension within his touch, and then the hardness of her belly beneath her fingers. She thought back to the night when he’d told her of the prophecy he’d read about, his interpretation of it and about the War for the Dawn. He had paced the room they’d been in afterwards, unable to sleep, and when she’d asked him the reason for his distraction, he’d told her that he dreaded to sleep for he would surely dream of death and destruction. Since then, she’d understood. There had to be a fight back.

“This child?” she questioned, looking down at her belly. “This child will fight against the great evil?”

He nodded. “It must be.”

Lyanna shifted in the bed until she was facing the maester. “Then you must all do whatever you need to do to ensure that the child lives. It is of the utmost importance.”

Luwin glanced from Lyanna to Rhaegar and then to the novice that accompanied him, uncertainty playing across his features. “You wish us to place the child’s welfare above your own, my lady?”

“I do,” said Lyanna.

Quickly, Rhaegar added, “But that is only if it should come to that. It is the last course of action, Maester Luwin. The last.”

“I understand, Your Grace.” He paused and it was obvious that there was still an air of scepticism about him. “Might I ask that you explain yourself, though? I do not wish to seem disbelieving, but your father was given to impulsive acts such as this.”

A smile crossed Rhaegar’s pale face, wan and tired. “Many men would be offended by your question, but I see why you are worried. I assure you, however, that I am sound of mind and soul and merely set in my course.” He shook his head. “When I read of the War for the Dawn, I had to do something. Some might consider me a fool for believing in something as insubstantial and uncertain as a prophecy, but I couldn’t possess this knowledge and then not act. It would be a dereliction of my duty as a Prince of the Realm.”

“I understand,” said Luwin. “We will do what we can, but I can make no promises. The situation is grave.” He took Rhaegar by the arm. “I must ask you to leave now though, Your Grace. We need space and quiet to work in and your lady needs to concentrate. If you are needed, you shall be called upon.”      

There was a moment where indecision crossed Rhaegar’s face, but then he nodded and said, “Of course.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then both of her cheeks, one after the other, and finally her lips. “I shall not rest until I hear more. If you need me… for anything at all… have them call for me.”

Lyanna watched him leave, watched the door close and then the two men in the room spring into action. Luwin produced a tool fashioned from copper and shaped rather like a hunting bugle. “I wish to listen to the child’s heartbeat, my lady,” he explained as he pressed it to her abdomen and listened. When she opened her mouth to speak, he pressed his finger to his lips and shushed her into silence. “There is still a good heartbeat,” he said as he removed the device. “But we shall need to monitor that. Now, I am going to give you a herbal draught. It is similar in some of its components to what is commonly known as tansy tea, but it is distilled in a different manner. I have found it very effective in bringing on labour, and that, I’m afraid, is what we need to do.”

“You are going to make me have the baby now?” Lyanna asked, confused. She had still been a young child when Benjen had been born and, as was often the custom, had been kept well away from the birthing room while her mother laboured, so she knew little about what was politely termed ‘a woman’s business’.

“It is necessary, my lady,” said Luwin. He had gone to the bag he had brought with him and pulled out a vial of dark amber-coloured liquid, uncorked it and was measuring spoonfuls of it into a cup. When he had finished, he passed the cup to her and apologised. “I am sorry for the sour taste. I have found it to be less effective when diluted with water or milk.”

Taking the cup, Lyanna looked down at its contents. The liquid swished gently. It had the consistency of cream but there was no sweet, milky scent. Instead the smell was earthy and reminded her faintly of rotting leaf litter. She braced herself, then swallowed the draught in one gulp, doing her best not to let it touch the sides of her mouth as she threw it down her throat.

The taste was foul and she couldn’t help retching as she felt it clag in her gullet like treacle. She swallowed several times to try to clear the sensation, looking at Maester Luwin with pleading eyes. “When we have some proof that it has worked, then I can offer you a drink of water,” he said.

“How long will it take?”

“An hour, maybe less. It can vary.” He offered her a sympathetic smile. “We will simply have to wait and hopefully the babe will be brought into the world soon.”

Lyanna frowned and looked down at her belly. The question that had been building in her mind since they’d brought her into her chambers finally broke free. “And what if it doesn’t go to plan?”

The novice stepped forward. There was something vaguely unnerving about how his pale eyes shifted away from her gaze. “With Prince Rhaegar’s word, I will take the babe from your belly to ensure its survival.”     

 

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was only a short update, but I am aware that I have been astonishingly poor at updating this recently, so I felt the need to let everyone know that I haven't just abandoned it and I am working on it! Part Two is from a different POV and should be coming soon, all being well. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for their patience and for sticking with me even when I am so unreliable with my updates.


	11. RHAEGAR - A Bed of Blood - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doubts and questions abound as time runs out for Lyanna Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have tried to get the medical detail somewhat correct, but I am aware that there are likely errors, both from a historical point of view and a scientific one, but please don't hang me for it!

RHAEGAR – A Bed of Blood – Part Two

 

The hours passed, blending one into the other, and his belly turned itself into tighter and tighter knots with every waiting hour.

For a time, he stood outside the room, watching out of the window at the people in the courtyard below. Warm afternoon sunlight filled the stone hallway he stood in and the sounds of a farrier shoeing horses drifted upwards. It struck him as ironic that life in the Red Keep was going on without change, whilst beyond the door behind him, the fate of the world was being decided.

He was tempted to go to the door and press his ear to the wood so that he might have a chance of overhearing any conversation or sound going on within, until he realised that, not only would it be very undignified to be caught in such a position, but it would also be a defiance of the agreement he’d made with the maester. And so he stood, and waited, and watched half-heartedly out of the window, until it all became so unbearable that he had to leave or he feared he would barge through the door heedless of any instructions he’d been given.

He headed blindly down the hallway until he found himself standing outside Rhaenys’ room. Ser Jonathor Darry was on guard and inclined his head in acknowledgement as Rhaegar approached. “Is the princess in her rooms?”

“She is with her Septa, Your Grace. I believe they are stitching.”

Rhaegar nodded. Rhaenys’ septa had, like so many others, perished in the blaze that had destroyed Maegor’s, but he had felt it important that she continue with her lessons despite this. He had heard that it was vital to re-establish a normal routine with children who had experienced terrible traumas and so he had sought a new septa out almost immediately.

As he pushed open the door and entered, he saw Rhaenys bowed over the table, a frown of concentration between her dark eyes. The fingers of her right hand clasped a needle and thread, and then in her left was what appeared to be the body of a rag doll stuffed with feathers, some of which had fallen to floor around her feet. She was stitching the back of the doll up with slightly off-kilter stitches. The septa, a plain, slightly mousy woman who went by the name of Collina, was seated beside her with another, rather more practised, doll in her hands.

“Rhaenys,” he said softly as he approached. The little girl looked up and a smile broke across her face.

“Father!”

Instantly, the doll was dropped, her chair pushed back and Rhaenys hurled herself at him, wrapping her arms around his thighs in a tight embrace. “You didn’t come to see me this morning,” she said with a touch of indignation as he smoothed her hair.

“I know I did not, sweetling. I had important business to attend to.”

Rhaenys stepped back and regarded him with a tilted head. “Kinging?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he allowed with a smile. He glanced at the septa and then at the work Rhaenys had been doing. “What are you making?”

“It’s a doll, but it’s not finished yet.” She held up the toy for his approval. It was still missing its legs and arms, but there was a head attached and Rhaenys had carefully drawn eyes on its face in black ink. “I am going to give her hair like Mother.”

“Like you…” Rhaegar heard himself say, but his daughter either didn’t hear his comment or chose to ignore it.

“Baelor Breakspear had dark hair, didn’t he, Father? I’ve been learning about him in my other lessons.”

“He favoured his mother, yes.”

“She was Dornish too, wasn’t she?”

Rhaegar nodded. He turned the bald rag doll over in his hands, his thoughts returning to the last conversation he’d had with Elia, when he’d shown her the letter from Lyanna telling him of her flight from Winterfell, and felt the weight of responsibility lying heavy on him once again. Her softly accented voice echoed in his head: _Women should have a choice, Rhaegar,_ she had said. _I rejected over a dozen suitors before you. If you are fond of this girl and you can do anything for her, then you should help her._

Even with Elia’s advice, he had agonised for days before he had ridden out in search of Lya, asking himself over and over whether he was doing the right thing involving himself in her little rebellion. And now, he wondered whether he had deceived Elia too, not wilfully exactly, but by virtue of neglecting to tell her everything that was in his mind. She had known of the prophecy, had known of his wish for another child, but Arthur’s words that day on the battlements had sowed doubts into him that hadn’t been there before. Had he been transparent enough with his feelings? Had he given Elia opportunity to truly voice her concerns, or had he just assumed that her blessing was what it had seemed – honest and unquestioning.

It was funny how the past so often seemed cloudy and uncertain when you looked back it.

Love could do that to you, his great-great uncle Aemon had told him in a letter once. It had as much power to confuse and befuddle as it had to illuminate and clarify.  

Rhaenys tugged on his sleeve and he looked down at her questioningly, drawn back to the present. “Can I go to Dorne one day?”

“You can go wherever you want, Rhaenys, when you’re a little older.”

Climbing back into her chair, Rhaenys hummed her approval and picked up her doll again. “Ser Jonothor said that Lady Lyanna is badly sick,” she said, staring down at the toy. A frown knitted her dark brows together. “Does that mean I might not get another brother or sister after all?”

Rhaegar felt his heart clutch at his daughter’s words and the fragile hope veiled beneath them. She had lost so much already that she had latched onto the idea of another sibling with both hands. Surely the Gods would not be cruel enough to snatch away another thing from her life? He went to her and crooked his finger underneath her chin so he could lift her face and look into her eyes. “Sweetling, none of us can say what the Gods have in store for us. We just have to pray that they will be kinder to us than they have been thus far.”

After a moment, Rhaenys nodded. She set the doll she’d been working on down and turned to her septa. “I want to go to the sept so I can pray for my baby brother or sister and for Lady Lyanna.”

The septa looked uncertainly at Rhaegar, but when he smiled and nodded his agreement, she held out her hand. “Of course you can, my Princess. We shall go now.”

Satisfied, Rhaenys got to her feet and took her septa’s hand and they left the room without a further word. Rhaegar stood still and listened to their footsteps fading away down the hallway, then sighed and turned to leave himself, only to see a familiar figure standing in the door behind him.

“Mother,” he said, surprised. The Queen had returned from Dragonstone just a few days before and Rhaegar had seen her only long enough to welcome her home and show her to her new chambers in the Tower of the Hand.  She was thin and tired, and for the first time in her life seemed to look her age, but she smiled a soft, sympathetic smile at him nonetheless. Her hair – the same colour as his own – hung loose about her shoulders, though an intricate braid had been worked around her hairline like a crown. Through the material of the lilac gown she wore, it was easy to see the growing swell of her belly. “I heard the news,” she said in that quiet way she had.

With a sigh, Rhaegar looked away. He picked up the doll Rhaenys had been working on again and stared emptily at its countenance. “So, it seems, has everyone.”

“You did not think that such a thing would keep quiet in this castle, did you?”      

He raised and lowered his eyebrows. As always, his mother was right. “I’ve waited before,” he murmured, “with Rhaenys and with Aegon, but I did not feel half so terrible then as I do now.” He looked up and met his mother’s gaze. “Does that make me a vile person, Mother? Does that mean that I didn’t love my other children?”

“Of course it doesn’t.” Rhaella’s reprimand was in her tone as much as in her words. “Birth was hard upon Elia, but the children’s lives were never in any real danger. Your fear is more potent now because you know that there is not just one life, but two, in danger--”

“And I have already risked so much for both of those lives,” he interrupted. “I am sure the world thinks me a fool, Mother, and right now I am questioning myself at every turn… I am trying to tell myself that I have done the right thing, but the doubts still come and the judgement still hurts.”

“There are always doubts, and judgement will always hurt.” Rhaella came to stand before him. One of her slim hands reached up and touched his cheek tenderly. “Oh, Rhaegar, you have always been a dreamer and far too inclined to overthink. I cannot count the number of hours I have spent worrying for you, disappearing in your books and thoughts so much. You know what I think of these prophecies you have read and I have made it no secret that I think you should tread carefully. Look what blind faith in prophecy brought my grandfather… and look what it made my father, a good, reasonable and just man, do with your father and I.”

“You would have me ignore what I have read?”

Rhaella frowned. “I would have you act with the sense I know you have and I would have you be strong in your convictions. If you are to pick up the pieces of this realm, you must do both of these things. You have a good head on your shoulders and your heart is sound. Do what you think is best and you will not go far wrong, but I would rather you let your own sense of what is right guide you than any prophecy you have read about in a book.”

“But what if--?”

“You make a mistake?” Rhaella interjected. “Everyone makes mistakes, my love. But not everyone learns from their mistakes, and that is where the difference is.” She paused and glanced around at Rhaenys’ room, at the jointed wooden dragons suspended from the ceiling, at the pile of coloured building blocks in the middle of the floor and the assortment of dolls and carved figurines sitting staring on the mantel above the fireplace. “You will feel responsibility towards your daughter – she is your daughter and it is only natural to do so – but you cannot change what has happened and what you did. Both of you must learn to live with the choices you have made.” A wry smile crossed her face. “Rhaenys, I think, is doing rather better than you are, at the moment.”

Rhaegar chuffed in the back of his throat. “Shown up by a not-quite-five-year-old,” he laughed wryly. “That is really rather poor, isn’t it?”

Rhaella said nothing for a moment, then she stepped back and smiled at him. “Go back and be ready for these maesters you have charged with Lyanna’s care. They will come to you with wonderful news, or they will come to you with terrible news. Either way, you must be strong and take whatever blows are dealt to you.”

“Yes…” he replied distantly.

He turned to look out of the window. A bank of thick night cloud had built up along the horizon and the sinking sun was staining it red. It looked like blood had been spilt.

“I love Lyanna, Mother, but now I find myself questioning whether I love her because of… love… Or whether I love her because I have invested so much in this prophecy…”

“Only you can answer that, Rhaegar. But I will say one thing – did prophecy make me love your father, or he I? Words are wind, my child, whether they are spoken aloud or written in a scroll. Love is so much more than that.”

He felt tears prickling behind his eyes like tiny needles. “But I loved Elia too. It was not the same as what I feel for Lya… but I did love her. And I love Rhaenys, and I loved Aegon… and I love this child yet to be born.” He sighed and closed his eyes and the tears spilled over. With a frustrated fist, he wiped them away. “How is that all possible?”

“Of course it is possible,” said his mother, softer now. “The human heart is not so small that it can only love one person. The singers make much of the romance of one true love, and when I was much younger, I believed that they spoke the truth, but reality is far more complex. You are learning that now just as I once did.”

Nodding, Rhaegar did his best to gather himself. “Sometimes I feel that I am so full of doubts that it is like being full of holes. I try to fill those holes up, patch up the wounds with knowledge and advice and assurances, but they always seem to open again.”

“It will get better, sweetling, with time.”

A sudden knock at the door startled both of them. Rhaegar glanced at his mother, feeling his heart speed up. “Yes?” he called, hoping the quaver in his voice was not obvious.

The door opened and a young girl, one of Lyanna’s handmaidens, came in, her head bowed. “Your Grace, Queen Rhaella,” she said deferentially.

“Marya, what is it?”

Marya was paler than the moon, he noticed then, and as she opened her mouth, he knew. Something was gravely wrong. He swept towards the girl with such suddenness that she let out an involuntary squeak and took a step backwards. “Tell me,” he demanded, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“The, the m-maester has sent me, Your Grace. L-l-lady Lyanna is…”

Rhaegar did not wait for her to finish her sentence. With his heart hammering in his chest, he fled out of the door and down the hall, all the while praying over and over in his head – _she is not dead, she is not dead, she is not dead_.

At the door to Lyanna’s chambers, he burst through without so much as a knock or a shout.

What he saw stopped him in his tracks and froze him to the core.

Amid the soft glow of candlelight, Lyanna lay on the bed, partly propped up with pillows. Her face was ghostly, her hair damp with sweat and sticking to her, her eyes half-closed and unfocused. She seemed not to have noticed him enter. She was breathing erratically and panting like she’d run breakneck for a mile. There was no babe to be seen, but between her legs, the sheets were stained red and, as his eyes flickered around the room, he saw another bloody pile beside the fire. “Lyanna,” he heard himself say.

Maester Luwin was beside the bed, his robes replaced with a pale grey tunic spattered with gore. He looked up as Rhaegar barged within. In the background, his novice hung vague as mist, a pair of vicious-looking steel tongs in his hand.  

“She is drifting in and out of consciousness, Your Grace,” said Luwin. “She may not respond to you.”

“My Gods…” He wanted to go to her, to pull her into his arms, but something stopped him and he stayed frozen to the spot. “Where is the child?” He demanded, taking a step further into the room. Behind him, the door swung shut of its own accord and the bang it made was so loud it sounded like a thunderclap.

“The child has not yet been born.” Luwin frowned. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his hands were bloody and stained. “I have sent for you because we face a difficult decision now.”

Rhaegar’s head jerked up, away from staring in a state of shock at Lyanna. “What difficult decision?”

“We are making little progress, Your Grace, and I am worried for the child and for Lady Lyanna. I fear the worst.”

“The worst…” He swallowed, the words catching in his throat. “You mean… they might die?”

“It is a very grave possibility.”

Rhaegar turned back to Lyanna. Slowly, hesitantly, he walked towards her and picked up one of her hands. It was limp to the touch but burning up. “Lya,” he whispered. “Oh, Lya…” She rolled her head towards the sound of his voice, but did not seem to see him. He closed his eyes and fought back the horror that was stoking within, trying to summon enough calm and clarity of thought to function. “Is there anything that can be done?”  

“I believe the babe is wrongly positioned in the womb – back to front, if you like, with the face turned towards Lady Lyanna’s belly. It is making for a problematic delivery.”

“I don’t want to know why the delivery is problematic!” yelled Rhaegar. “I want to know if there’s anything that can be done!” He fixed Luwin with an unwavering stare. “I cannot lose them, Maester.”

There was a long silence. Luwin went to Lyanna’s dressing table where a bowl of water was steaming gently and washed his hands. As he dried them, he turned back to Rhaegar and said, “There is something we could try, Your Grace. It is highly dangerous and something I have never resorted to myself, but my novice has some experience in the procedure--”

“What is it?” Rhaegar demanded.

Luwin turned to his novice. “Qyburn…”

The shadowy man moved forward. _He looks kindly enough_ , thought Rhaegar, _but why do I feel so nervous in his presence?_ “We could take the babe from her belly. I will cut into her womb and draw out the child, then sew up the incision and treat it with a special poultice I have found quite effective in promoting sound healing.”

“Cut her open?” The words sounded horrifying. It was quite common for a man to lose an arm or leg or foot or hand from a wound on the battlefield, but to actually cut into the belly… Everything Rhaegar knew about belly wounds spoke of slow death and terrible pain. He turned to Lyanna. If it was possible, she looked even greyer than she had when he had first entered and now her eyes were closed completely.

_What do I do? I don’t know what to do!_ The panic sounded like a screaming siren in his head and rendered him almost dumb. Shaking his head, he turned back to Qyburn and Luwin. “What would you do?” he asked hopelessly.

“If we do nothing, she will die, Your Grace, and the babe will follow her.” Luwin’s voice was grave. “Of that much I am certain… With what Qyburn has proposed, they have at least a chance.”

“The babe has a better chance than the woman,” said Qyburn quietly. “But in medicine and science, there are no certainties. Only one thing is sure: time is running out.”

Rhaegar stared at Lyanna on the bed. At Harrenhal, she had seemed so bold, a warrior dressed in mismatched armour with a face sent from the Gods. Now, she seemed little more than a girl, younger and more vulnerable than he had imagined she could ever be. When he had come into the room, she had been hovering at the edges of consciousness, but now she had fallen still. He looked around at the stained sheets and felt a sob building inside him. “Do it,” he said, as it broke free and cut the silence.

Luwin nodded. “Marya, take him out, my child. Find someone to sit with him and give him a warm drink.”

Tentatively, the handmaiden pulled at his arm. “Come with me, Your Grace,” she said.

Without really realising that he was doing as he was bid, Rhaegar shuffled out of the room. The door was closed behind him. For a moment, his knees seemed weak, but suddenly there was another arm around his waist and he looked blearily up to see Eddard Stark standing beside him. “I’ve got you,” he said.

Another handmaiden stood with him and it dawned slowly upon him that the maester must have sent someone to find Lyanna’s brother too.

They stumbled to a window seat a few paces along the hall and Rhaegar crumpled into it. Stark remained standing. “It’s not good news, is it?” he asked. The tone of his voice sounded as if he hardly needed to hear an answer. He drew in a long, tight breath then exhaled it again. There was a long pause. “What happens now?”

“We wait,” said Rhaegar.

Eddard Stark looked as if he was sick of waiting and he turned and paced back a dozen steps in the direction of the door behind which Qyburn was no doubt now commencing his surgery. Then, he seemed to think better of whatever he had intended to do and instead turned about and paced back to stand in front of Rhaegar. “There is nothing more we can do?”

Rhaegar shook his head. Abruptly, it seemed that a prayer might help, so he bowed his head and folded his hands together in his lap and murmured a plea to the Mother under his breath.

With a heavy sigh, Stark went to the window and looked out, his hands folded behind his back. Had the circumstances been any different, Rhaegar knew he would have been gripped by awkwardness and unease to be standing with this man he had fought against, charged with high treason, imprisoned and pardoned, but for some reason, oddly, he felt quite comfortable. He wondered if it was perhaps a sense of camaraderie under pressure – they were just two men waiting for the word of news.

Night descended and the torches were lit. Marya brought them both hot cups of tea and they drank together, silent, but calm in one another’s presence. Eventually, Eddard Stark spoke: “I knew my sister was unhappy in the match our father had made for her, but I did nothing about it. I should have told our father, should have tried to reason with him, but I did not. I simply thought that she must accept it and do her duty.” He sighed. “I had no idea she would run like she did.”

Rhaegar looked up, surprised by his words. He had been expecting accusations and blame, not this. “She never gave me chance to dissuade her,” he admitted. “I, too, knew she was unhappy, but I never thought to receive a letter telling me she had fled her family home and was running south… I didn’t know what to do with it.” He glanced up at his companion. “Perhaps all would have been better had I simply ignored her words.”

Frowning, Stark replied, “And what then would have happened? However I look at this, I struggle to see an outcome that would have been what Lyanna would have wished.” He shook his head. “Lyanna acted like a wilful girl, without due thought for the circumstances and the consequences of her actions. It would be easy to blame _her_ , if I had it in me to do so, but she is my sister.”

“And she is the woman I love.” Their eyes met. “I am truly sorry for what my father did to your family, Eddard, and for my involvement thus far in this horrible chain of events. But despite this, I do love your sister and my hope is that we – you and I – can come to understand one another.”

There was a long silence. Stark was staring at him, his face unreadable, and then slowly, he extended his hand. Rhaegar stood and reached for it and their hands clasped. “An understanding…” said Stark.

“An understanding,” echoed Rhaegar.

Someone cleared their throat and they both turned, breaking their contact. The maester stood a few paces away. He had changed into a clean tunic, but there were shadows under his eyes and a tension about his person. Rhaegar froze. He searched Luwin’s face for some kind of clue to his mood, but there was little to be certain of.

“It is done, Your Grace. The child has been born. A boy, of a little less than average weight. He is a little sickly yet, but there is strength in his pulse and he is taking the wet-nurse’s milk well. I believe he is out of immediate danger.”

Rhaegar’s heart was thumping. _A boy._ “And Lya?” He could hardly bear to ask.

“She sleeps. And if the Gods are good, she will sleep for a long time.” Luwin paused, his face grave. “You should pray for her soul.”  


	12. CATELYN - Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New beginnings and old alliances form amid the ruins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I must apologise for the terribly slow update. Those of you who follow my tumblr will have noticed that I became quite silent on there too, but have recently learned the reason for that. Like Catelyn and Lyanna in this story, I have become a mother for the first time, giving birth to my own little boy. Needless to say, finding time to finish writing this chapter has been quite a challenge, but I'm pleased to say that it is now done. Hopefully, it will not disappoint!

CATELYN - Family

The babe was crying again.

Catelyn sighed and rolled onto her side, then heaved herself up to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The first fingers of dawn were creeping in through the gap in the drapes, turning the room milky with pale light. She listened momentarily to the wailing coming from the crib she had placed beneath the window – it was full-throated and urgent and spoke of a hungry child. It had been ten days since she had given birth, but her body still ached and memories of unbroken sleep still haunted her. A midwife had been to see her every day, but there was little for her to do. The babe had taken to suckling like a duck to water and Catelyn was eating, drinking and healing well, although sometimes it felt like she had expended the very last ounce of her energy.

As a child, she had dreamed of marriage and motherhood, but in those dreams she had imagined a loving husband, a quiet and beautiful son and a warm castle to be her home. What she had instead was an anonymous room in a strange place and hour upon hour of solitude.

If she had been another woman, she might have cried. But she was Catelyn Tully – no, Catelyn _Stark_ – and she would be strong. She would be.

Mayhaps if she asked they would let her see her husband today.   

“It’s all right sweetling,” she murmured as she climbed to her feet and went to the crib, looking down at the squalling red-faced infant swaddled within. “Sh-sh-sh,” she told the babe as she unwrapped him, picked him up and placed him on her shoulder to carry him back to the bed with her. She had not given him a name yet, although she had thought of several possibilities, as she wanted to share the choosing with her lord husband. She supposed that he would like a hand in the choice of name for his firstborn, given all that had been sacrificed.

Settling herself down on the bed, she shifted back into a comfortable position against the pillows and opened her nightgown. The babe seemed to sense that he was about to be fed, for his crying diminished and he turned his face and rooted for her nipple, before latching on hungrily and falling immediately silent. As the wincing pain that still accompanied every feed slowly dissipated, Catelyn sighed and let her head fall back to lean against the headboard behind her.

For a moment she closed her eyes, but as she did, the tiredness that hung in her bones seemed to drag at her like an anchor and she could feel herself sinking into sleep even while she sat there and the babe nursed. With a shake of her head to clear the fog, she blinked again and again and then looked down. The babe was still sucking hard, a thin line of milk leaking from his mouth. “Steady now, greedy,” she told him and dabbed at it with her sleeve.

She stroked the back of her hand gently over the thin reddish baby hair atop his crown and watched him suckle, feeling the now familiar rush of feeling engulf her at the sight of him. She wondered if her husband would feel the same attachment to his son when he finally saw him. She hoped so. He had already missed so much of this infant’s young life and she did not want him to miss more.  

When the babe had eaten his fill, she sat him up, winded him, wiped his face and then carried him back to his crib. He was falling back to sleep when she laid him down again, but Catelyn felt wide awake and her mind was a melee. Convinced that any further rest would be impossible, she drew back the drapes and stared out at the city in the distance. Slow signs of life were stirring in the streets – the sound of horseshoes ringing on cobbles, smoke beginning to rise from chimneys, and the distant cry of an ironmonger hawking his wares. The sun would be strong again today, she could tell, for there was not a cloud in the sky. It was the kind of Southron weather she loved and remembered well from her childhood, but it served only to remind her that soon she would be carried north to the frozen lands of the Starks. Despite being betrothed to Brandon Stark for years, she had never visited Winterfell, nor even travelled north of the Neck. For all she knew it was a wilderness beyond. But whatever it was, she was sure that it would be nothing like Riverrun.

She pulled a chair up to the side of the crib, positioning it so she could watch the rising dawn, and sat down. It was sometime later when a knock at the door woke her and she jerked awake, turning towards the sound. She recognised the muffled and questioning voice that came from without as her handmaiden, Jessy. “Come in,” Catelyn called. The door opened and Jessy entered in scuttling fashion, with her head down, and immediately began stripping back the sheets on the bed.

At first Catelyn thought the girl was alone, but then the door swung wide and a different figure walked within. Tall and with hair so grey it could almost be called white, this man wore the scales of the Kingsguard and a dour, expressionless face. He stood well over six feet, with shoulders that spoke of an immense strength. Immediately, Catelyn knew who stood before her: it was Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. A sense of unease rippled through her. _What is he here for? I have committed no crime._

She rose haltingly, aware that she was somewhat underdressed for receiving male visitors. “Ser Gerold, can I help you?”

The knight’s gaze flickered towards the sleeping infant in his crib and Catelyn fought against the sudden rush of maternal protectiveness that coursed through her in response to his glance. She lifted her chin.

Hightower, seeing her fear, cleared his throat and turned his gaze back to her. “Do not think I am here to bring you or your babe harm, my lady,” he said. “Quite the contrary. I bring tidings from Prince Rhaegar and an invitation… The Prince wonders if you would like to see your husband?”

Catelyn blinked in surprise. _Prince Rhaegar wonders…?_ She had heard that Rhaegar had not moved from Lyanna Stark’s bedside in three days and had put an immediate and unconditional stop to all audiences, petitioners and council meetings. In effect, all political machinations within the Red Keep had been halted. The idea that he had found reason to think of her and her only recently pardoned husband was unexpected to say the least. “I, um, yes… of course… That would be wonderful.” She smiled at Ser Gerold. “And greatly appreciated.”

“Of course,” agreed the knight. “I shall make arrangements for you to be shown to his chambers this morning.”

He was about to turn and leave, but Catelyn stepped forward and stopped him, placing a hand on his forearm. “Ser, before you go… How is Lady Lyanna?”

Ser Gerold frowned. “She is much the same, I am afraid. A deep sleep grips her and nothing can stir her. However, given what she has endured, the maesters think it is for the best. The Prince…” He paused, as if wondering whether he was saying more than he should, but then continued, “the Prince believes she will get better.”

“He has faith in her,” said Catelyn quietly.

“I believe he cannot bear to think otherwise, my lady.”

The knight’s words were delivered with a calm honesty, but nonetheless, they made Catelyn pause. _Despite all,_ _I should count myself lucky_ , she thought.

“And the child?”

“Thankfully, the child appears to be well and is growing stronger with every day that passes.” He glanced at the crib at the base of the window. “He bears the look of the Starks. At present, that both pleases and grieves the Prince, as you might imagine.”

Catelyn nodded. She thought of Rhaegar sitting beside the girl he had risked so much for, the shadows of loss and grief hanging around him, wondering if mayhaps he was about to lose another. It was hard, sometimes, to summon sympathy for someone whose actions had been at best unthinking and, at worst, downright foolish, but Catelyn found herself doing just that. No-one deserved to lose their families, whichever side they were on. “Please send my thanks to the Prince,” she said. “And tell him that I pray for Lady Lyanna.”

“I will do that, my lady.” Ser Gerold smiled a wan smile and exited.

Her head full of gratitude for the safety and health of her own fledgling family, Catelyn went straight to the crib and looked down at the sleeping babe, whispering a quiet prayer to the Mother, before turning her thoughts to the invitation that had been offered. She had not seen Lord Eddard since that day in the Throne Room when she had watched him bend his knee to Rhaegar. Jessy had told her that he had been released from his prison cell and given comfortable rooms in the castle, but beyond that, little news had been conveyed to her. She had heard whispers that he had spent hours in Rhaegar’s company the night Lyanna had begun to labour, whispers that had spoken of tolerant words between the two men, and wondered if mayhaps the shared trauma they had endured that night had brought them together. She hoped so. If nothing else could come of where they were now, that would suffice.

It was past noon when finally someone came to her door again and Catelyn had bathed, washed her hair, braided it and dressed long ago. She had begun to wonder whether the invitation had been forgotten when the knock came at the door and she opened it to find two men-at-arms in Targaryen livery waiting beyond. “Lady Stark, come with us.”

Catelyn gathered up her son from his crib and followed. The two men led her down a flight of steps, then along a dim hall where sunlight punched through a succession of arrow slits, creating a pattern of square lights on the red stone floor. It seemed like they were to take another run of steps, but the men stopped at a heavy, oaken door and knocked loudly.

A voice sounded from within and Catelyn recognised it immediately as that of her lord husband. Something measured half way between nervousness and anticipation clutched at her belly as the guard opened the door and stepped aside to allow her entrance.

The room was warm and yellow with sunshine, its décor simple but functional and its size modest. These were clearly rooms intended for the highborn, but not the most honoured of guests. It was no matter, though. Anything was better than the Black Cells. A wicker chair was positioned near the window and a dark-haired figure was seated in it, his back to the door.

“Lord Stark,” said the guard. “Your lady wife, Catelyn.”

Catelyn halted. The figure in the chair turned around and rose and she saw that it was indeed Eddard Stark. They had given him fresh garb, but the embroidered linen tunic and lightweight breeches looked out of place on him. _He was made for furs and wool_ , she thought as she beheld him. He was still thin and tired, but he looked a deal better than he had done that day in the Throne Room, though there were still lines of worry etched beneath his grey eyes. “My lady,” he greeted, coming towards her. For a moment he seemed undecided whether or not to take her hand, so she held it up for him and he pressed a kiss onto her knuckles. Uncertainly, he released her hand and looked down. “I believe that, in no small part, I owe my life to you. Thank you.”

“It was my duty, my lord,” she told him, even though the words he had spoken had touched her. “You are my husband.” He nodded once, formally, and turned away, but not before she caught the tiniest of frowns growing between his brows. “And my family,” she added.

At that, he turned back to her, seeming to realise then that there was a child being carried on her shoulder. He froze. Catelyn tried not to smile at the obvious hesitation registering on his face and instead lifted the babe away from her shoulder. “Your son, my lord,” she said.

His eyes softened as he looked down at the sleeping bundle now cradled against her breast. “My son…” he murmured.

With one tentative hand, he reached out and touched the downy skin on the babe’s cheek with his forefinger. “He is healthy and well, my lord,” Catelyn told him. “Would you like to hold him?”

He glanced at her at that, as if surprised that she would allow him to do so. “I would…”

“It might be easier if you sat back down in the chair again,” said Catelyn. Her husband nodded and, without a word, did as he was bid, before holding out his arms. Slowly, Catelyn adjusted her grip and then handed him his son. The babe shifted a little in his slumber, but did not stir. Lord Eddard looked up and met her gaze, a smile of quiet wonder on his lips.

“He is beautiful. You have done a fine job, my lady.”

Catelyn felt an involuntary blush colour her cheeks and she looked down to try to hide it. She had been touched by his reaction and, for some reason, she realised that his praise really mattered to her. “Thank you, my lord… Eddard.”

“Please,” he said, “call me Ned. I would have you call me by the name my family have always called me.”

My family. The words resonated with Catelyn, and abruptly, the man in front of her seemed much less of the formal, sombre young lord she had met for the first time in the sept at Riverrun, the man she had wondered whether she could ever grow close to. She remembered her conversation with Lyanna atop the battlements and the way she had referred to the man Catelyn had wed as Ned, not Eddard. Ned. It had seemed awkward to think of him with such familiarity then, but for a reason she couldn’t quite determine, now it seemed completely right that she should do so. “Ned,” she murmured, trying out the sound of the name aloud.

Smiling a small smile at her, he nodded, then turned his attention back to the child he held in his arms. “What is his name?” he asked her.

“I have not chosen one,” she admitted. “Given all that has happened, I felt it was your place to do that, my-- Ned… and I wanted you to have the choice.”

He looked up. “I would have been happy with anything you had chosen, my lady.”

“I did not wish to make the choice alone,” she said.

A moment’s silence passed. “Then we must think on it and decide. I feel it would be ill luck for the child to continue nameless.” He got to his feet, still with the babe in his arms, and went to the window, looking out. Catelyn joined him. From where they stood, there was a clear view of the battlements and, in the distance, the blackened ruins of Maegor’s Holdfast, a reminder of the wildfire that had coursed through the castle and taken so much with it. A single royal standard flickered from the nearest guard tower, the Targaryen dragon red on black.  “But it would also be wise to consider any choice we make carefully, given what has brought us to this point.”

That much was true, she knew. They had to think of what message their choice of name might send to those who might be looking. “A family name?” she suggested.

Ned nodded. “Yes, mayhaps. But even there we must tread warily. I cannot think that I could name my firstborn son Brandon or Rickard and not bring about fresh ill-feeling.”

“No,” Catelyn agreed.

They fell silent again, both thinking on the possibilities. And then, as she stared at the ruins before them, it came to her. A field of fire, glowing yellow, then orange, then red with flame, and through the smoke and heat, a Targaryen sigil fluttering in the wind. A man on his knees beside a great blue river, his hands holding out a crown. And then, another man, years later, repeating the same act of simple courage for the sake of the greater good…

She turned to that man. “What about Torrhen?”

Ned Stark’s icy grey gaze fixed upon her, his face as unreadable as it had been that day in the sept at Riverrun when they had spoken their vows and sworn themselves together as man and wife. For a long beat, he did not say a word, and Catelyn began to think that she had offended him, then gradually a smile grew on his lips. “Yes,” he said. “Torrhen.”

He looked down at the babe and something in his eyes melted. In his arms, the child stirred and whimpered, one tiny hand reaching up towards his father. Catelyn released a breath she had not realised she’d been holding and felt a rush of relief flood through her. “I think he approves,” she said softly.

“And I think there can be little insult in such a choice.” With his forefinger, he caressed his son’s cheek before adding, “I received a letter bearing Rhaegar’s seal this morning. He has named me Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

“That is great news, my lord,” said Catelyn. “And a real hope for the future.”

“It is, but there is more. He has not stopped at that. He has named me Lord Protector of the Heir. Catelyn, he wants me to foster his son when he is of an age.”

Catelyn’s eyes widened. She had never heard of such a title existing before, or indeed a member of the royal family being involved in any kind of fostering arrangement. The closest thing she could recall was the agreement reached between Ser Duncan the Tall and Maekar Targaryen over the then Prince Aegon. That association had forged a friendship between the young prince and the hedge knight that had lasted an entire lifetime and brought great rewards to Ser Duncan. The potential in Rhaegar’s offer was obvious, yet, still, Catelyn found herself wary. It seemed too good to be true. “I don’t understand… Why?”

“He wants Lyanna’s son to know something of his mother’s home.”

“Ned,” Catelyn interrupted, “Lyanna is not dead. I know the Prince is concerned that she may not survive, but it bodes ill to make plans such as these while she still lives.”

He turned to look once more out of the window, his eyes grey and fathomless once again. At length, he said, “I know that. And I am as sure as I can be that she has not given her blessing to this. She misliked it whenever Brandon and I left… But whatever I might think, I find myself tied. Rhaegar told me he would only return me to Winterfell if I swore to take the child.” He sighed, his desire to return to his home unspoken but obvious, and already warring with his loyalty to his sister. Catelyn frowned. This was the rub, she realised.

“But Rhaegar has already given his word in the letter you received, has he not? You said he had named you Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

“That was what the letter said, but you should know how easy it is to withdraw such a thing, with or without a royal seal. Oftimes, princes are apt to do as they please and a piece of paper is hardly likely to save me if his mood turns.” Turning back to her, he added, “Give me your counsel, my lady. What do I do?”

In that moment, Catelyn was struck by how he looked less of a lord and more of a youth than he had ever looked. She thought to go to him and embrace him, but stopped herself. He did not need her sympathy. He needed her advice and her support. And there was no way she could soften the truth. “You cannot refuse him. If you do, it will surely be more costly than the loss of your lands and title. What of your son?” Catelyn felt harder than a stone as he looked at her bleakly and silently. “Your sister made her choices long ago and--” She reached out and touched his arm, offering the only measure of kindness she could. “The boy will be among family.”

Ned seized on that. “Yes, he will be.” He looked down at his son, still sleeping in his arms. “Mayhaps the two of them will grow to be close.”

Catelyn was about to reply when, from across the city, a bell tolled.

They both looked up. A single ringing bell could mean but one thing – a death. Ned’s face paled. “Gods,” he cursed under his breath. “No…”

Quickly, Catelyn swiped the babe from his arms. His body had gone almost rigid by the time the bell tolled again.

And then a second bell joined it, and another, and another, and another, each one growing in sound until it seemed that every bell in the city was ringing out a peel. He looked toward the window, frowning and listening. He opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by a knocking at the door. He turned sharply as the door burst open.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood in the entrance, breathless, a smile upon his face. He glanced at Catelyn, then his eyes met Ned’s. “She has awoken,” he said.  


	13. LYANNA - Blue Roses and Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, it's never what you suppose...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should apologise for the unforgivable delay. I have been working on it all this time, but there's been some other priorities in my life these last few months! Thank you for being patient.

When she was a girl, Lyanna’s father had forbid her from riding in breeches. It was not becoming, apparently, for a highborn girl to be seen cavorting about in garb made for men. Lyanna had never understood that. To her, breeches were merely practical, the most obvious choice to enable freedom of movement and better horsemanship. So she continued to wear them, riding off from the stables the very next morning to meet with Domeric Bolton on the Kingsroad south of the castle. When Lord Rickard discovered his daughter’s disobedience, he was wroth. The sound of his anger had shook the very walls of Winterfell and drawn her brothers from their lessons. Brandon had stood in the yard and bellowed for her to return, but Ned… Ned had waited quietly in the wings while she endured the lecture and reprimands and was banished to her chambers.

And so it was that day when the darkness broke and she rose as if from the bottom of a murky pond to surge painfully awake. At first there was silence, and the faces swam before her in frightening muteness, their lips moving but no sound emerging, their features blurred so it was impossible to tell one from another. Then from out of the foggy edges of her vision, a face appeared that she had known all her life.

Ned.

His face was long and serious, so like their father’s, but his eyes were lit from within with emotion Lord Rickard had rarely shown. He said nothing as he sank to his knees beside the bed and took her hand in his. She heard his voice then, steady and quiet, and felt the beating of her heart calm. “Lyanna,” he said and a world of relief flooded his features.

Her mouth was dry and words seemed lost to her so she tried to smile instead, but even that was beyond her. As she dimly wondered if she was rendered mute, she felt a surge of panic build inside her, then heard her own voice croak out his name in return. “Lya… Gods, it is good to hear you speak,” he said. “You scared us all.”

Over his shoulder, she saw Rhaegar enter the room. Immediately, he came to her and she felt the bed sink as he sat next to her. Beneath his eyes there were dark shadows, made all the more prominent by his pale skin, but there was a smile on his lips as he reached out and ran the backs of his fingers over her cheek before taking her hand in both of his and squeezing it tightly. “My love,” he murmured. “How do you feel?”

The question made her frown. How did she feel? Her head was thick with fuzz and she could feel something heavy in her abdomen, almost as if it was being pressed down on from above. When she tried to move she felt only a sharp pain grip her.

“My lady, you must be careful.” The maester hovered over her, voluminous in grey cloth. “Your healing appears to be going well, and we have given you milk of the poppy for the pain, but you have endured much and more and must not exert yourself.”

She looked down at herself, but she could see nothing but pristine white sheets across her, tucked in beneath the featherbed upon which she lay. One thing, however, did not escape her notice - there was no swollen belly. She started.

“My babe… Where…?”

Rhaegar shifted forwards a touch and smiled gently. “Do not worry yourself, my love. He is safe and well in his nursery.”

“A boy?”

“A fine boy, my lady,” confirmed the maester. “Healthy and strong and the image of his mother.”

“Oh…” Something in her had wanted a babe with the looks of the Targaryens, all white-blond hair and purple eyes, a child she could see the father in. She wondered what Rhaegar would make of a child who was so obviously a Stark. She looked to him with uncertainty, but there was no trace of disappointment in his face.

“Would you like to see him?” he asked her.

She nodded and the orders were given. A handmaiden returned a moment later with a bundle pressed against her chest, a thatch of dark hair visible above the white blankets. Once again, she tried to move to get a closer look, but the pain halted her in her tracks. “Please… come closer,” she bid the handmaiden, who had stopped at her wince and was looking at Rhaegar with questioning eyes.

“Bring the babe to her,” he told the girl, “and then leave us. All of you.”  

With the speed of one who was nervous beyond sense, the handmaiden went to Lyanna and shifted the babe’s position from shoulder to arm, dropping down a touch so Lyanna could take the child from her more easily and then turning to scuttle from the room as she had been bid. The maester followed in her steps.

As the door closed behind them, Lyanna looked down. Cocooned within the blankets, a small, pink, scrunched up face could be seen, sleeping contentedly. The dark hair upon the babe’s head was thin but substantial enough to draw attention and it was immediately clear that his features were in no way Targaryen.

Beside her, Ned leaned forward to take a closer look. For a moment, it seemed that he did not know what to say, but his slight smile said enough without words. He nodded, then spoke, “It is true, then – he is like you, Lya.”

She stared for a long beat at the babe, the strangest feeling building inside her, then asked, “Have you named him?”  

Rhaegar smiled sadly. “I thought it ill luck,” he admitted. “What would you have him called, my lady?”

Before, she had spent long hours studying Targaryen family history, pouring over the names of kings and princes, queens and princesses, but somehow now, as she beheld the little dark-haired child that had been placed in her arms, all those names suddenly seemed inappropriate. Her babe was not an Aemon, or a Jaehaerys, or a Baelor. “He needs a Northern name,” she said.

“I had thought you might say that,” replied Rhaegar. “In fact, when they drew him from you and I first laid eyes upon him, I knew the choice I had made in my own mind was wrong. I had thought the Gods would bring us a daughter, a Visenya to be the dragon’s third head, but when the Maester called that it was a boy, I had to think again. So I thought to name him Daeron, after Good King Daeron, but when I was presented with him, I saw not a drop of reason why he should carry such a name. There is too much of the North in him. You must name him, Lya.”  

Lyanna frowned. She looked at him uncertainly. “You are sure?”

“Quite.”     

Beside her, Ned cleared his throat subtly. She glanced at him and saw the concerns he had written on his face. “This could be a controversial choice,” she said to Rhaegar. “Some of your supporters might believe that I have influenced you, that you have bent to my will…”

Rhaegar stood up sharply and she was reminded of how tall he was and how imposing a figure he could truly be when he looked down on you. “Then they would be wrong. And they would be unwise to whisper such things.”

“They will whisper, Your Grace,” Ned told him quietly.

“That they may, but if they do so within my hearing, I will not tolerate it. I do not wish to have to remind anyone of the words of my house but I will do so if I need to.” His voice was like steel, cold and unforgiving. It made her shiver. Ned looked away and she saw his brows knit in a momentary frown. Clearly, Rhaegar saw the expression too, for he said, “You think me harsh, Stark…”

Their eyes met. “I believe in justice, Your Grace,” Ned told him. “And there is always justice in the truth. You cannot blame men for the thoughts they think.”

“But I can blame them for speaking them aloud.”

“You can, but you would be wiser to listen to them before you condemn them. My father always said that simple parley can oftentimes do more to settle stirring souls than any threat or aggressive action.”

Silence greeted Ned’s words and Lyanna thought that he had said too much. The wound of what the Mad King had done to Brandon and Lord Rickard was still raw for all of them and bled again at the slightest touch. She looked anxiously from her brother to Rhaegar. Both of their faces were set in stone. She knew Ned had not meant to provoke or needle the Prince, but there was no doubt that his words had stirred up the water. She heard herself swallow and opened her mouth to come to Ned’s defence, but before she could quite get the words out, a laugh rang out. So bewildered was she that for a moment she was unsure if she had actually heard it. It was Rhaegar who had laughed, yet she scarcely believed it. He said,

“Oh, how much ill could have been prevented had my damnable father spoken to those men he saw as his enemies!”

Lyanna stared in confusion. She had not held him responsible for his father’s actions – it would have been foul-spirited to do so, she had thought. But still it was there, buried in the back of her mind. Brandon had been rash, her father stupidly defensive of his eldest son, but neither of them had deserved what had befallen them. Often, when she had lain awake in the dead of night after fleeing Winterfell, she had wished for things to have been different. But wishing changed little. They were dead, just as the Mad King was dead, and if there was one thing she had learned from Robert Baratheon, it was that holding hate in your heart never solved a thing.

Ned, it seemed, was also startled by the Prince’s comment. A frown had formed between his eyes, a question unspoken. Rhaegar answered it, “I see you are surprised to hear me say such things, Lord Stark.”

Nodding slowly, Ned replied, “I am, Your Grace.”

“It is no secret that my father was a good man who had become unstable of mind. The maesters told me it was the madness of age, yet my father was not old. Whatever the reason for it, his incapacity made clear something I have felt the Seven Kingdoms has needed for years – a true order of men to unite the realm. King and lords, together as one, speaking with one voice on matters of import. A king should not be allowed to make such grievous errors again.”

“You speak of the Small Council,” said Ned.

“No, I speak of something more than the Small Council. It is true that the Small Council can advise the monarch, but often the men that sit it are friends or allies of the King, chosen by him. What I envision is a regular gathering of the great lords of the lands, from all four corners of the Seven Kingdoms. These lords will continue to govern their own lands in the King’s name, but they will also have a say in the governance of the nation.”

The idea was a sound one to Lyanna’s ears, but an idea was little more than a wisp until it was set in motion. She remembered the conversation she had had with the Kingsguard on the road to the capital those several moons ago and remembered Ser Oswell’s words. It would be difficult to change something so inbuilt into the system. Was Rhaegar the one to do it? _I hope he knows what he is doing_ , she thought, even as Ned asked, “How will you know they will come?”

Rhaegar stood straighter. “They will come because I will bid them come. And they will come because they will have a voice.” He paused and regarded Ned with an unwavering gaze. “I intend to hold the first meeting in one moon’s turn. Ravens will leave King’s Landing on the morrow summoning the chosen men to the capital. As you will no doubt have heard, Stannis Baratheon has agreed to act as my Hand. He will sit beside me at this meeting. And you, Lord Stark, I would have you sit on this new council of lords. I feel your presence will do much to persuade those who may have doubts about my rule festering in their hearts.”

If Ned was hesitant to accept, he did not show it. Instead, donning the face of a cool diplomat, he replied, “It is a bold suggestion you have made.” He paused. “You have my word that I will be there.”

“That is good, but now I must ask you to take your leave, Lord Stark. Your sister and I have more joyous business to attend to - my son requires a name.”

Ned bowed his head. “Your Grace,” he said. He picked up Lyanna’s hand and squeezed it tightly, then reached out to gently run his finger over the babe’s downy cheek. “I will speak with you on the morrow, Lya. Rest well.”  

And with that, he was gone, retreating out of the door with his usual quietness and calm, no doubt to sit and think on all that had been revealed. When the door clicked closed, Rhaegar came to sit lightly on the edge of the bed. He smiled, his tone and demeanour changed now Ned had left. Gone was the iron will of a leader and a future king, replaced instead by the gentleness she had first seen in him when he had found her hiding her weirwood shield deep in the Harrenhal Godswood. He sighed, “I hope your brother is sincere in his promise. I cannot help but think that his involvement is vital.”

“Ned will keep his word. He always does.”

Rhaegar hummed, his thoughts still obviously filled with the challenges of the future.

“What shall we call him?” she asked.

“What would be your choice, my love?”

“I don’t know.” She truly did not. A hundred different Northern names flashed through her head, all as inappropriate as the next. She had to tread carefully. “Something strong and bold – a new name, or one long forgotten. Something that shows where he’s come from, mayhaps…” she suggested.

“Your brother’s name is a Northern name is it not?”

Lyanna studied him closely, uncertain what exactly he was suggesting. _Does he mean to say that they should name the boy after Ned?_ A peaceable deal may have been brokered between their two houses, but it seemed unlikely that the swords could be buried to that extent. _Or could they?_ “Eddard is a Northern name, yes,” she confirmed.

“Then what about Edgar? Half of my name and half of your brother’s. Ice and Fire. Stark and Targaryen.”

He seemed pleased with the suggestion, but his words resonated with something more worrying. _He speaks of the prophecy once again_. It had been as they had sheltered in a roadside inn on the Kingsroad just a few leagues from the capital where she had first heard him talk of it and she had seen then how much it had meant to him. And the way he’d spoken of it had been persuasive – it had seemed the only logical thing to believe in it too. But many moons had passed since then and as her belly had grown and grown, she had heard him speak of it so often that doubts had begun to grow in her. Part of her still trusted him implicitly, still believed his motivations were sound and his actions the only possible ones, yet another part of her had begun to question.

What if he had read it wrongly?

What if everything he had done in the name of this prophecy was a misjudgement?    

In her arms, the babe stirred with a soft sound of waking. A pair of eyes, grey like the colour of a Northern lake, opened and fixed on her.

“He’s awake,” she whispered, feeling her heart clutch in the strangest way.

Leaning forward slightly, Rhaegar said, “He really is the image of you. A Stark, through and through.” He smiled. “If I didn’t know better, I would question my involvement in his birth.”

A moment passed as they both watched the babe snuffling and shifting. “Edgar,” she murmured, trying out the sound of the name on her lips. “A new Targaryen prince.”

“And one with great expectations already upon him.” Rhaegar got to his feet and went to the window, one hand reaching up and absentmindedly smoothing the voile drape. A cloud seemed to have descended over him and all at once he was serious and business-like again. “I have spoken with your brother about wardship when the child is of an age.”

“Wardship?” Lyanna asked. The very word conjured images of Ned and Brandon standing in the courtyard at Winterfell, snowflakes sticking in their hair as they watched their trunks being loaded onto wayns bound to take them away from their home. It made her heart ache just thinking about it. “What do you mean? You’re going to send him away?”

 Rhaegar turned. “It is essential, my love. The prophecy states that his is the song of ice and fire. Therefore he must know both. North and south, ice and fire must be in his heart and mind as much as it runs in his veins. He is a Stark but he is also a Targaryen.”

“I know that,” Lyanna said, unable to keep the sharpness from her voice. She found herself suddenly wondering just what lengths he would go to in order to fulfil this damned prophecy. A half-forgotten phrase she had once heard sprang to mind – a prophecy is only as powerful as the people who believe it. She looked at Rhaegar standing in the window, at the short black cloak that hung from his shoulders, the three-headed dragon sigil embroidered upon it in finest red silk. He wore no crown yet but the power he already wielded was vast. She continued, “But I don’t understand why he has to be sent away. He will have you and me to teach him all he needs to know about his heritage.”

“Knowledge and experience are two different things,” replied Rhaegar. Still he had not turned back to face her. “He will experience both. You must not question me further on this matter for I am resolved.”

Lyanna bridled. The wild part of her that had been dimmed since her flight from Winterfell began to kindle anew. Her jaw set and she snapped, “You speak of this as if it is your decision alone to make. He is my son as much as he is yours. I wish to raise him myself, here in King’s Landing with you by my side.”

A little gust of wind blew in through the window and Rhaegar turned around. There was something slow and determined in his posture, like a giant beast crouching low, and his eyes had turned the colour of thunder. “Then you would place your wishes above the needs of this entire realm? I thought you understood what was at stake here? The prophecy speaks of the War for the Dawn and a Prince That Was Promised, a saviour come again. This babe,” he said, indicating at the child in Lyanna’s arms, “this babe must be that prince.”

“Damn this prophecy, Rhaegar! It is turning you into a fool who listens to no-one! None of this makes sense… You say one thing and you forget what you have said before! If our boy is the Prince that was Promised, who are the other two heads of the dragon?”

Rhaegar froze in place, staring at her with a fathomless expression on his face, and suddenly it occurred to Lyanna that while he might seem as if he was sure beyond all doubt, he was really as uncertain as anyone attempting to unpick the words of a long ago told prophecy. She wondered, though, if he would actually admit to such fallibility. In a moment, she got her answer.

“I do not wish to discuss this anymore, Lyanna. I have made my decision.” And with that he walked out of the room.

Left alone in a gulf of silence, Lyanna stared after him, feeling angry tears burning behind her eyes. As she sniffed them back, the babe seemed to sense her distress and began to cry also. “Shh, shh, shh,” she told him and tried as best she could to rock him, ignoring the pain it caused her. “Don’t cry, little one.”  

But the babe did not heed her and instead his cries became more urgent. She tried to shift her position, but the pain in her belly stopped her. _Oh Gods_ , she pleaded silently and looked in desperation around the empty room. _What am I to do?_ The maester and the handmaidens were gone and instead there were just four bare walls now echoing to the sound of an infant’s wailing. “Shhhhh… Come on now…”

She had not a single idea about how to tend to a babe. Lessons in the art of good womanhood had flown past Lyanna – she had much preferred to dress in breeches and men’s garb and ride across windswept moors than sit as bidden in a dull library. But now here she was, alone and in possession of a screaming child.

As the cold fingers of panic began to close around her, the door clicked open and the handmaiden shuffled within, her head bowed. “My Lady,” she murmured and held out her hands to take the babe.

Lyanna had never been so glad to see another soul. Without another word, the handmaiden scooped up the child, placed him on her shoulder and began to pace slowly in front of the hearth. Slowly, the crying began to quieten. Lyanna stared. The girl was small and mousy but she seemed to have wits enough about her to know exactly what to do with a crying babe. “How do you do that?” she asked.

“I have seven sisters and brothers, my lady, all younger than I.” She turned and afforded Lyanna a small smile. “I grew up tending to babes.”

“Oh…”

“You will learn quickly, m’lady. All mothers do. This one is hungry, I think. I shall take him back to his wetnurse. You should try to get some rest. You look pale.”

“I do?”

“Yes, and tired, m’lady. You have endured much and more. I will make sure your boy is fed and tended to, so do not worry yourself on that count,” she said and made to leave.

The handmaiden’s words made Lyanna realise just how weary she really was and, unbidden, a yawn spilled out of her. It seemed that just one conversation had drained her. It was a far cry from the boundless girl she had been just a few moons ago.

For a brief moment she closed her eyes, and the sense of exhaustion almost overwhelmed her. She forced her eyes back open. _Ned. I have to speak to Ned._ “Please,” she called after the handmaiden. “Please will you fetch my brother?”

“Of course, m’lady.”

When Ned came, Lyanna was woken by the sound of the door clicking open and heeled boots echoing on the stone floor. She had not known she had fallen asleep, but it was clear she had for outside the sky was streaked red with sunset and the room was now filled with dim twilight. A candle in a glass holder had been lit beside her bed and the fire kindled in the hearth, but she had no idea of who had done either. Slowly, Ned came towards the bed, a soft smile on his face. “You were sleeping when I came the first time,” he explained. “I did not wish to wake you.”

“You should have done,” she told him.

Ned stared at her. His blessed face was as serious as always, the skin around his eyes already crinkling with concern. “I think not. You fail to understand how sick you have been, sister. And you are not yet healed. You must remember that.”

“I know…”

“This is so hard,” Lyanna sighed. “I’ve never been sick more than a day in my life.”

Her brother had no words for that, but a soft smile lifted his lips. “A poor patient.”

“So it seems.” Another yawn spilled forth. Ned sank to his knees beside the bed and took her hand in his.

“Your hands are clammy,” he said.

“It’s warm in here.”

“Yes…”

They fell into silence. For a long moment, it persisted, like a stranger in the room. She could feel Ned’s hands wrapped gently around hers, the rough callouses on his sword hand, the pick of a broken fingernail against her palm, and the warmth…

She felt herself drifting once again.

_I have to tell him, I have to…_

Her eyes snapped open, her breath coming in a sharp gasp. “Ned…”

“What is it, Lya? Are you--”

“I need you to promise me something. Only you.”

Her brother looked worried. He leaned forward, squeezing her hand once again.  “Of course. What is it?”

 _Oh Ned._ He would have given her the world if she’d asked. Or would he? “Say no.”

“Say no?” Ned frowned at her, not understanding. “Say no to what? To whom?”

“To Rhaegar. Tell him no.  Tell him you won’t take my son away from me.”

Silence again. The fire crackled in the hearth, spitting hot cinders out onto the floor before it. They glowed momentarily, then died. “I know you know what I mean,” said Lyanna. “I know what he has asked of you.”

Ned drew in a slow breath. “Lya, I can’t… What you’re asking of me—I can’t do that.” He shook his head. She could see him warring with himself, fighting a battle in his head over what she was asking him. But she pressed on.  

“Please, Ned, I beg you. He is my son, likely my only son. What would you feel if they took your boy away from you?”

“They might. Or worse. You forget what brought us here, sister, and the good fortune I have benefitted from. If I refuse him, there will surely be consequences.”

Lyanna knew it to be true. She sighed, feeling defeat looming in the shadows of the room. Ned’s gaze had turned hard as ice and she knew then that there was little more she could do. Tears welled and she turned her head away as they spilled over. “Am I to stay here alone then?” she asked him. “While you take my babe from me and raise him hundreds of miles away…”

“You will have Rhaegar,” Ned told her. “I hear he is already planning the wedding.”

There was a time when that news would have raised a flush of joy in her, yet there was nothing except a cold feeling in her chest and a terrible sense of regret over the choices she had made. What had seemed like glorious freedom and the lightness of true love now felt heavy and ponderous. She was as trapped as she’d been before. 

Ned reached out and stroked his hand along her cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, as if sensing that his words had given little comfort. “I promise I will raise him as if he was my own,” he said softly. “I will keep him safe and I will show him what it is to be a Stark.” He offered her a small smile. “And you can come to see him whenever you wish. You will always be welcome at Winterfell.”

“Yes…” she whispered, her voice faint and tired.

A knock came at the door, breaking the quiet. Ned got to his feet and went to the door. A conversation began and she strained to hear what was being said. When her brother closed the door and turned around, she saw that he held flowers in his hands. In the half-light she could see creams and yellows amid dark green foliage, and then as Ned came closer, saw the roses, blue as frost. He held them out to her. “You will know who these are from,” he said.

She nodded, reaching out and touching the opening blooms, their petals like silk against her fingertips. She remembered the crown of roses as it had slipped from his lance and into her lap, the smile she could see through his visor. How foolish she had been to think that this would all be simple! Slowly, she closed her hand around one of them, squeezing it in an iron grip until it broke from its stem. Her eyes filled with tears once again as she opened her palm and the crushed petals fell darkly to the floor. “Leave me, Ned,” she sighed. “Leave me.”


	14. OBERYN - A Snake in the Grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The focus shifts and from the ashes, something rises.

OBERYN – A Snake in the Grass

 

The air was thick with the scent of night blossom. In the trees and shrubs around the balcony, a thousand insects could be heard, singing the songs of late evening. It had been a hot, humid day, but the sun was setting now, bloodying the sky and casting long shadows all around. Prince Oberyn Martell sat at a low table, dining on fire peppers, pomegranates and spiced sausage. This was his tenth night within the walls of the Red Keep, and supposedly his last, yet Oberyn was in no hurry.

“Have you received word from Prince Doran? When does he wish you to return?” said his squire, who sat beside him at the table. Daemon Sand was little more than a youth, with the sandy hair of the salty Dornish, and a face worthy of a thousand oil paintings. 

Oberyn paused in his eating, setting down the pomegranate he had been scooping the seeds from, and looked up. “My brother has said that my business here is done. He wishes me to return immediately.”

Daemon nodded. “You are satisfied with the deal struck, then?”

“As satisfied as one can be.”

Silence wrapped itself around the two men. Oberyn went back to his pomegranate, but knew his squire still had more to say. Daemon had been his friend for years, his lover on and off too, and Oberyn had learned to read his face and moods like a book. “What is it?” he said after a further moment of silence yielded no further words.

Daemon took a drink from the wine cup he had been cradling and replied, “I cannot believe that you are content to leave this city with nothing more than the promise of a marriage. All of Dorne heard your curses after Elia died.”

“My brother gave me orders to remain aloof.” Oberyn afforded him a cursory glance. Daemon looked uneasy – he was holding the wine cup far tighter than he needed to. “And that is what I shall do. He said that there is little to be gained from stirring the water so soon and for possibly the first time in my life, I am inclined to agree with him. Dorne knows when to wield its spear and when to keep it sheathed.”

His squire tried manfully to disguise his misgivings but failed. Oberyn laughed. “You doubt me unfairly, my friend.” He finished the pomegranate and threw the outer husk into the bushes, before leaning back in his seat and smiling. “Relax.”

“Forgive me, Oberyn,” Daemon said. “A snake may shed its skin, but it will always remain a snake.” He stood up and threw the last of his wine down his throat. “If you are indeed choosing to follow the path advised by your brother, then I wish you well, but if you are doing what you often do and masquerading something more calculating behind an image of quiet submission, then please beware. Prince Rhaegar may have pardoned Eddard Stark and Hoster Tully, but he took Jon Arryn’s head. Be careful.”

“They may call me the Viper,” Oberyn said with a smile, “but I am capable of hiding in the grass. Have faith in me.”

Daemon grunted as he turned to leave. “Good night, my prince.”

Oberyn watched his squire retreat, listening to the sound of the door clunk as it closed behind him. For a moment, he remained seated, listening to the insects and watching the night clouds banking up along the horizon. If he closed his eyes, he imagined he could be back in Dorne once more. When he had last visited Elia here in King’s Landing, they had sat together on a balcony on an evening such as this, dining on Dornish food and wine and talking long into the night. That was when the Mad King had still sat the throne, Rhaegar Targaryen had been but a prince and the realm had been quiet. Elia had been heavy with her second child and bound to her bed for most of the days, a shadow of her former self. It had pained Oberyn to see her so, but she had been calm and resolved in her duty to bring forth a son for her royal husband.

But now, as Oberyn thought on that night, he wondered if even then the prince’s mind had been filled with thoughts of Lyanna Stark. Elia had loved him as a friend if not a soul-mate, that much was certain, but how much had she truly known? And how much had she given her blessing to? Rhaegar would have him believe that Elia had known the truth of it all, but Oberyn could not bring himself to believe that his sweet, smart sister would have been so accepting, so… passive. She was still a Martell, and she knew the value of her position as Crown Princess. Would she have given that up so easily? The answer, he felt, was no. She may have been sickly and she may have been kind-hearted, but Elia had always known how to look after her own interests.

He wished he had been given the chance to speak to his sister before she died.

With a sigh, he snuffed the torch that had lit their supper and went back into his rooms. It was still too warm to close the balcony doors, so he pulled the voile drapes across and padded through to the bedroom. He was about to remove his tunic and breeches and retire when a knock came at the door. The hour was late and he was not expecting visitors. _Who can that be?_ He went to the door and opened it to find a hunch-backed and hooded man standing without. The stranger held a candle against the gathering darkness and the light from it pitched the face beneath the cowl in sharp relief. It was impossible to discern any clear features. “I bring a message for you,” said the figure. His voice was low and gravelly, with a hint of a Dornish accent.

Oberyn did not move. He carried a dirk at his belt and he knew he could draw it in a matter of seconds. “Who are you?”

“I am a messenger,” replied the man. “I must speak with you alone, Prince Oberyn.”

For a moment, Oberyn wavered, uncertain whether to grant the stranger entrance to his rooms, but then curiosity overwhelmed him and he stepped aside. The figure slid silently in. Oberyn closed the door behind him and when he turned back to his visitor, all had changed. Gone was the hunchback with the hooded roughspun cloak, and in his place stood someone Oberyn knew all too well.    

“Lord Varys,” he greeted.

“Prince Oberyn.” Varys had lowered his hood and removed his cloak to reveal a look that was far more familiar to his person. His hands were clasped together inside the dagged sleeves of a damasked silk robe the colour of the finest Dornish wine, while his head was slightly bowed and his eyes were lowered. Oberyn had heard much and more of the man they called ‘the Spider’, none of it particularly enamouring, and he felt himself tensing as if for battle as he beheld his visitor.

“What brings you to my rooms?” he asked.

A look of unease passed across Varys’s powdered face and he glanced nervously to his right and left, as if checking the room for eavesdroppers. “I have something you may be interested in hearing,” said the eunuch.  Instantly, Oberyn’s guard went up. He knew well how Varys had crept his way into court and whispered all manner of things to fuel the Mad King’s paranoia. He watched Varys’s deep blue eyes flit over the room’s fixtures and fittings, saw him ghost a hand over the voile drapes and take a breath of the scented night blossom that grew around the balcony. Neither man said a word. Eventually, with a swish of silk, Varys turned back to him, his face a picture of innocence. The curiosity was too much.

“What news have you brought me?”

“I heard that you were leaving on the morrow, my Prince, and I thought that you would wish to hear from me news of your sister.”

A rattling snarl slipped through Oberyn’s teeth and he exclaimed, “My sister?” _How dare he speak of Elia as if she were still alive!_ “My sister is dead, burned alive by the Mad King. You know that as well as I, Lord Varys.”

“A terrible thing,” said Varys with a shake of his head. “A terrible, unforeseen thing.”

Oberyn grunted, barely mollified. He did not have the time or patience to play one of the eunuch’s games of whispers, half-truths and lies. “It is late, my lord,” he said wearily. “Tell me what you have come to tell me or else leave me to sleep. I have a long ride ahead of me tomorrow.”

“I am sorry for not coming to see you earlier. I confess I have not had the opportunity.” Varys sighed, as if the weight of the world was upon his shoulders. “Would you mind if we were to close these doors, Prince Oberyn?” he asked, indicating the panelled doors that led out onto the balcony.

“I like the night breeze,” replied Oberyn.

“You may, but trust me, my Prince, I have made secrets and knowledge my trade and I am well aware of how information can be overheard when one’s guard is down. What I have to tell you is something that, if it were overheard, could put your family in grave danger.”    

That stopped Oberyn dead. He tried to see beyond the serious expression on Varys’s face and determine what purpose he had. He could not believe that the eunuch was here to confide information purely for the benefit of House Martell – that did not seem to fit. If ever there had been a man at court with his own agenda, it was Varys, and Oberyn was quite sure that he served no-one but himself. Yet, still his curiosity burned. With some reluctance, he went to the doors and pulled them closed, then dropped the latch. _Mayhaps if I make my stance perfectly clear…_

Turning to face Varys, he reached for the dirk that hung at his belt and drew it. Varys squeaked and backed up, waving his hands vaguely in front of his face as if he could waft the weapon away like a bad smell. “What is this news you bring me, Lord Varys?” he hissed, watching as beads of sweat began to form on Varys’s brow. “But before you speak, know this – you had better hope that your news is both honest and worth my while to listen to. I am not in the habit of disembowelling messengers who seek me out, but neither am I happy to be played for a fool.”

Varys swallowed audibly, his eyes fixed on the blade. “Oh, I assure you, Prince Oberyn, every word I speak is true. Now, please, I beg you, put down your weapon. It is making me most… nervous.”

Slowly, Oberyn lowered the dirk, then sheathed it. Varys let out a relieved sigh then caressed the skin of his neck with padding fingertips. “I am afraid I cannot abide naked steel. It forever reminds me of the day I was cut.”

“Speak,” said Oberyn. “I grow tired of waiting.”      

“I understand…” Varys replied and slipped his hands back inside his sleeves. He gave a little shiver, as if composing himself once again. _A spider indeed_ , thought Oberyn, _and one waiting at the corner of a web._ “But first I must set the scene, my Prince, or none of what I have to say will make sense to you. You are aware of Ser Arthur Dayne’s sister, the Lady Ashara Dayne?”

Oberyn knew of her, as did every other hot-blooded man in the Seven Kingdoms, but he also knew what few outside of Dorne did – that she had left King’s Landing shortly before the wildfire, returning to her family home at Starfall to give birth to a bastard child, a girl, who had been stillborn. But something told him it would not be prudent to reveal all he knew in the presence of this sly, obsequious man. “I know of her, yes,” he confirmed. “Elia spoke often of her. I believe they were friends.”

“Your sister and Lady Ashara were fast friends, indeed, and Princess Elia shared much with her handmaiden, which is where my tale begins. I know you and your sister were close, Prince Oberyn, but I know of something that I doubt she shared with even you. Prince Rhaegar has told you how he planned to take Lady Lyanna Stark as his second wife, has he not? And how your sister had granted him her blessing in this?”

Oberyn nodded. “He wanted another child, Elia told me, and she could not give him another.”

“Princess Elia was ever frail of body,” agreed Varys. “But she was not frail of mind. She may have granted her husband her blessing to seek out another wife, for she knew that objection would have got her naught, but she was not going to allow her interests to be usurped so easily. Nor was she going to allow King Aerys to play games with her to maintain Dorne’s allegiance. She had long suspected the Mad King was dangerous and like to commit some heinous crime and she felt it was more important than ever to ensure that House Martell would retain its influence over the royal family. Above all, she wanted to protect her children.”

“Of course. Elia would have done anything for her children.”

“Mothers are inclined to, my Prince,” said Varys. “It was one night such as this, not long after Prince Rhaegar left to find Lyanna Stark, that she came to me to ask me if I could help her. She feared for the future of things and wanted to send Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon away from King’s Landing. Somewhere where they could be hidden until such time as it was safe for them to return.”

“She wanted to send them to Dorne,” Oberyn predicted, but his words received a shake of Varys’s head.

“Dorne was too close, too obvious, and smelled too clearly of her involvement. Your sister was wise; she knew she had to tread carefully. And so I made a suggestion to her. I have a friend, you see, who owns a large and well-fortified mansion in Pentos. He and I have known each other for years and with a few words, I was able to convince him to agree to take the little prince and princess. They would travel across the Narrow Sea, and live away from King Aerys’s influence, to then return when Prince Rhaegar ascended the throne, which, your sister hoped, would be sooner than many believed.”

Oberyn said nothing for a moment, taking in the spider’s apparent earnestness. There was more, he knew, and he had to know it. “But how does Ashara Dayne fit into this picture? And what of Elia herself? My sister would never have left her children, even for a short time.”

With a smile, Varys nodded. “Oh, you are quite right, Prince Oberyn,” he said. “It took a good deal of my persuading to convince your sister that she should remain in King’s Landing herself. But you must understand, had she fled the capital along with her children, not only would she have implicated herself in the events, but she would have sounded a horn over her intentions. It had to appear that she had no knowledge. So, she needed a smokescreen, and who better than a trusted friend?”

Ashara. Oberyn started at the realisation. “She wanted Ashara to steal away her children…”

“Indeed, my Prince. And Lady Ashara would have done anything for the Princess.”

“But something went wrong…”

“Something went wrong,” confirmed Varys. “You will recall the great tourney at Harrenhal, yes?”

“I was there,” Oberyn told him shortly. It had been at Harrenhal that everything had begun to sour. From the moment Oberyn had arrived, he had sensed an atmosphere about the place - the King had been there, come out of the Red Keep for the first time in years, and his eyes had been shifting with paranoia, and then when Rhaegar had tipped that crown of roses into Lyanna Stark's lap instead of Elia's... While everyone else had been looking at Lyanna Stark, their smiles and laughter turning to frowns and questions, Oberyn had been watching his sister and the look of calm, emotionless acceptance upon her face. He had been wroth, for her sake, but she had begged him not to say or do anything, and so he had obliged. In the dark days of his grief, he had wondered what would have happened had he said what was on his mind to Prince Rhaegar.

Varys nodded. “I know that, my Prince, and Brandon Stark was also there, and he made his presence well known to Lady Ashara.”

“He bedded her and got her with child.” For the briefest of moments, Varys looked shocked at Oberyn’s knowledge, then recomposed himself. Laughing, Oberyn replied, “Do not look so shocked - Dorne knows more than it lets on, Lord Varys.”

Varys’s thin, pale eyebrows lifted. “So it appears, although not, I fear, quite enough to be useful.”

Oberyn’s lip curled at that and his mind flicked to the dirk hanging at his belt. Clearly his earlier threat had been forgotten. “Be careful, my lord,” he warned the eunuch. “I may have let you into my rooms, but if you wish to leave them unharmed you should be warier.”

“My apologies.” Varys held his hands up as if surrendering to a greater force. “I was merely making an observation. I am afraid that Ashara Dayne’s stillborn child is the reason Prince Aegon and Princess Elia are not still alive today.” He shook his head. “A sorry business, my Prince. If only I had been able to have a hand in turning the fates…”

“What happened to Ashara?”

“Her noble brother,” explained Varys. “Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard.”

“He found out what she was planning to do…”

“No, he did not, but when he heard his sister was with child, and more specifically, that that child was Brandon Stark’s, he acted alone and without her consent. After King Aerys had murdered Stark, his father and his friends, Ser Arthur had his sister carried away from King’s Landing in the middle of the night and taken back to Starfall, where he placed her in confinement in a tower room, the poor child. He told me it was for her own safety and dignity.”

Now that was news. Oberyn had believed, as had most of Dorne, that Ashara had returned to her family home gladly, to hide away in her shame and give birth to her bastard away from the glare of eyes in the capital. Never had it crossed his mind to think that she might have been taken against her will, yet now that he heard it, he realised that it all sounded quite possible. He knew little of Ser Arthur Dayne, really. The man had a reputation, of course, but reputations were built as much of rumour and hearsay as they were of truths. He was an honourable man, they said, but Oberyn had learnt that honourable men were often hard-hearted men. Mayhaps Ser Arthur Dayne was as hard as he was chivalrous.

It certainly painted a different picture of Ashara’s suicide to learn she had been kept in that tower against her will.

“You have heard of her fate, I presume?” Oberyn said.

Varys nodded and softly replied, “I have, my Prince. Truly terrible and a great personal sadness.”

Turning away, Oberyn sighed. “And when Ashara was taken away, my sister’s plan fell apart.”

“It did, alas,” said Varys. “It was barely a week before King Aerys set fire to Maegor’s Holdfast. There was no time to make alternative arrangements. I tried, but…” His voice trailed off and a silence lasted. Oberyn thought how close his sister had been to saving something of herself. If only things had been different! Yet he found he could not blame Ser Arthur for his actions. He was, in his own harshly honourable way, trying to do the best he could for his sister.

He was stirred from his thoughts by Varys clearing his throat with a little cough. “I beg your pardon, Prince Oberyn,” he began.

“What is it?”

“I feel your sadness, but the tale does not have to end here.”

Oberyn frowned. He wondered what the Spider was weaving now. Surely all that was left was ashes and tragedy. “Go on…”

“Lady Lyanna’s son is thriving, I am told. A healthy babe, despite his difficult start in life. And Prince Rhaegar will be crowned on the morrow, which will make the young Edgar the heir to the throne.”

“What of it?” said Oberyn. “There is nothing I can do about that, short of slitting the boy’s throat, and while many have accused me having… indistinct morals… even I stop short of killing a child.”

“Of course,” agreed Varys. “But a child’s death does not have to be the only choice available. Your niece still lives.”

It was a simple statement that could almost be called innocent, but all of a sudden, Oberyn felt a light shine on him. “Dornish law states that the eldest child inherits, regardless of gender. A female can inherit lands and titles before a male, provided she was born first.” He shook his head. “But the crown has always passed to the eldest son. There is no precedent outside of Dorne for such a thing.”

“Quite. But why is that? That question has never been truly raised, but mayhaps now is the perfect time to raise it.”

A sharp silence stretched, cut fine like a blade.

“You are suggesting that I should raise Dorne for Rhaenys? Seek to make her Rhaegar’s heir rather than Prince Edgar?”

Varys shrugged. “I am suggesting nothing, Prince Oberyn. I am merely illustrating the situation to you.” He picked up the roughspun cloak he had arrived in, slipped it around his shoulders and raised the hood. Instantly, his face was thrown into shadow and, with a shifting of his stance, he became another. “What you choose to do is your own decision.”

“Why tell me all this?” asked Oberyn when Varys was almost at the door. “What use is it to you?”

“No use, my Prince,” said the Spider.

Oberyn shook his head and laughed. “I do not believe you, Lord Varys. Why would anyone share such information if they did not hope to gain from it?”

With a shrug, Varys replied, “Mayhaps because your sister would have wished me to. A kindness, I know, but I am a soft-hearted man.” He sighed dramatically. “And while it is true that some secrets are best kept hidden, others are best revealed.”

And with that, he was gone. For a long moment, Oberyn stared at the door he had exited out of, his mind awhirl with thoughts. Finally, he flung open the balcony doors and walked back outside. Now that the last oozings of day had gone away, the world had fallen quiet and the lights of the Red Keep were being snuffed.  

Oberyn had been tired, but now he felt wide awake. He picked up the wine bottle he had been drinking from – there was another glassful left – and poured the contents into his cup, swilling it gently to awaken the flavours before bringing it to his mouth and sipping.

Dorne had sided with the Crown during the Rebellion, but when news had come of Elia and the children’s deaths, Doran had ordered all their troops back home. Letter after letter had arrived from King’s Landing, the latter ones written in Rhaegar’s own hand, but two moons passed by before Doran agreed to send Oberyn to the capital with instructions to accept whatever appeasement was offered.

That had hurt, but Doran had insisted. “There is no point in starting war anew, Oberyn,” he had said. “We lost near 5,000 men at the Trident. Our land has bled enough.” Of course, his brother was right, but for Oberyn, it felt like his wounds would never stop bleeding.  

That was when they had not known how Rhaenys had squirrelled her way out of the Red Keep and lost herself amidst the city streets, when they had thought that Elia’s line had been ended. Now, everything had changed. Rhaenys was alive and well and all of a sudden, sitting back and allowing Rhaegar Targaryen to name his new son as his heir while Rhaenys was overlooked seemed to be a sin. It should be Elia’s girl who should sit the Iron Throne, not some babe with Northern blood.     

A deep and troubled sigh gushed out of him. He took another drink of wine and frowned at the thought of it all. Yet again, he felt like he was being stretched on a rack, torn between his brother’s wishes and his own desires. There had been a time when Oberyn would have simply done whatever he wanted, but age had mellowed him somewhat. He had no desire to be named a traitor. But still…

With his head full to bursting of all that had happened, and an impossible decision to determine, Oberyn took his wine back into his rooms.

The next day he woke late, when it was already full light, his skin sticky with sweat. The night had stayed warm and muggy with humidity and even though he had slept with the balcony doors ajar, he had still wound up with the sheets tangled around his legs. Kicking them free, he rolled onto his back and lay staring at the ceiling. A thin crack had traced its way across the plasterwork, and from the gap, a spider dangled by a thread of web, spinning gently. Oberyn watched the spider for a long while. Varys claimed to be motivated by kindness and a sort of obscure form of justice, but something made Oberyn doubt that. He knew little of the eunuch, but he knew enough of men to know when one could be called honest and when one could be called a liar. Varys was neither one nor the other. He was an enigma wrapped in a paradox. And that in itself was cause enough not to believe him.

He dressed slowly and thoughtfully, taking his time to shave, trim his chin beard and oil back his hair. The night had brought him fewer answers than he had hoped for, but sleep had made him both bold and wise. He knew what he wanted to do. He could not say if Doran would be happy with him, but he suspected that Elia would be. She may have tutted and sighed along with the rest of his family when they were growing up, but secretly, she often agreed.

He called for breakfast to be served in his rooms and took his time over fresh flatbreads, dried fruits and a cup of iced almond milk. When he was finished, he fastened his belt, hung himself with dirk and short spear and slipped his feet into his boots.

Outside his room, it was hotter still. The great halls of the Red Keep had a tendency to gather stale air when the breeze was light and by the time he reached the nursery he was lightly sweating. His retinue would be already preparing to leave but there was no need to hurry. It would be a long ride back to Dorne. No Kingsguard knight stood outside the great oaken doors, but he knocked anyway. A moment passed and then a mousy haired woman appeared before him. “My lord,” she said, with head bowed. “I am Septa Collina. Can I help you?”

“I would wish to see Princess Rhaenys, my niece.”

“I am sorry, my lord… my Prince, I mean,” said the septa, still looking at her feet. “The Princess is in the gardens with her father this morning. They left to walk to the wishing well some time ago.”

Oberyn nodded. “I shall look for them there, then. Thank you, septa.”

He turned and headed down the steps to the gardens at the rear of the Red Keep. There were miles of stone paths twisting and turning their way through shrubs, flowers, trees and lakes but Oberyn knew exactly where the wishing well was, as Elia had brought him to see it on his last visit. As he approached, he heard a child’s laugh coming from behind a rambling rose climbing vigorously over timber trelliswork. “Do it again, Father!”

“Again?” came Rhaegar’s voice in response. He was laughing too, something Oberyn had believed he was not even capable of doing. “Again?!”

Whatever it was he was doing, he did it again and the child laughed out loud once more. Oberyn listened a moment, then rounded the corner. Rhaegar was holding his daughter under the arms, lifting her high into the air as if she were nothing more than a doll. Rhaenys was giddy with laughter, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining. The scene stopped him a moment and made him feel suddenly worse than a criminal.

Rhaenys caught sight of him over her father’s shoulder and stopped laughing. “Father, who is that?”

Turning, Rhaegar lowered his daughter and set her down on the ground. “Prince Oberyn,” he greeted. In the drawing in of a breath, his tone had become hard and business-like, and his face dour. “I had thought you were leaving today.”

“I am.” He smiled at Rhaenys. “I simply came to bid my niece goodbye.”

There was the tiniest softening of Rhaegar’s manner, but even so, his hand slipped down to grasp his daughter’s. He nodded, then crouched down so he was on Rhaenys’ level. “Rhaenys, do you know who this is?”

Rhaenys looked up at Oberyn, and he felt his heart clutch. She was the very image of her mother, with but one small difference. Rhaenys’s eyes were the same colour as her father’s – deepest lilac. In the warm sunlight they seemed like rich amethysts. Slowly, she freed her hand and approached, coming to stand before him, her head tilted back as she studied him. She frowned, then glanced back at her father. “He looks like a Dornishman, Father. Is he Dornish?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, sweetling,” Rhaegar told her.

“Are you Dornish, ser?”

Oberyn tried not to frown at her choice of honorific. “I am Dornish, Princess. But I am not a ser.”

“Oh?”

“No, I am a Prince, a Prince of Dorne. And I am your uncle.”

There was a moment as Rhaenys put her brain to work, no doubt trying to figure out what he was saying. “I am your mother’s brother,” Oberyn explained.

“Prince Doran? He is the ruler of Dorne. He is my mother’s brother, my septa told me so.”

“He is,” said Oberyn. “Your mother had several brothers, though only Prince Doran and I survive.” He picked up her hand and clasped it within his. “Prince Oberyn Martell. It is good to finally meet you, Rhaenys. You look much like your mother did as a child.”

“I do?” Something in that statement pleased Rhaenys and she looked up and smiled eagerly at her father. He nodded his confirmation.

“You look very much like your mother.”

At that, Rhaenys looked away and suddenly her eyes were filled with tears. Oberyn felt his heart clutch. He barely knew this tiny girl, but his own grief was pricked by hers and so he got down on his knees before her and took up her hands again. “You miss her,” he said softly. Rhaenys nodded and wiped her eyes with her fists. “I do, too. Very much. I wish there was some way I could bring her back to you.”

Rhaenys brightened. “That’s why we came out here.” She turned to her father and held out her hand. “I need my dragon now.”

Rhaegar chuckled. “Do you, now?”

“My dragon, Father,” prompted Rhaenys with just a touch of impatience. “You promised.”

Reaching into the pocket of his breeches, Rhaegar pulled out a single golden dragon coin and proffered it on an open palm. “I’m afraid this will have to suffice. Real dragons are rather hard to come by these days.”

Rhaenys didn’t seem to understand the joke, so she simply plucked the coin from her father’s hand and waved it in front of Oberyn’s face. “Drop it in,” she said, without further explanation.

He frowned in confusion, but fortunately Rhaegar picked up on his bewilderment and explained, “She wants you to drop the coin into the wishing well, Prince Oberyn. Your sister seemed to think that dropping a golden coin into this well would mean whatever wish she wished would come true. I am not sure whether it ever worked, but I did once catch one of the stable boys climbing out of here with his pockets full of golden dragons.”

That made Oberyn laugh. It seemed like the sort of vague, ethereal thing Elia would believe in – she had always been one for myths and legends and stories from long ago. Perhaps that was why she had believed Rhaegar’s strange tale of a prophecy predicting the end of the world. He took the coin from Rhaenys and said, “Show me.”

The well was surrounded by a low stone wall, so Rhaenys stood up on her tip toes to peer into it. “Down there,” she instructed, pointing. Her voice echoed back at her.

Oberyn came to stand beside her. “So do I make a wish now or after I’ve dropped the coin?”

Rhaenys glanced up at him with the sort of contempt only a small child can muster and replied, “You make a wish as you throw the coin in, Uncle! Otherwise it won’t come true.”

Oberyn resisted the urge to say that he didn’t see how throwing a coin into a well could possibly make a wish come true. It was clearly something Rhaenys believed in and he didn’t have the heart to destroy her childish faith. “What do you want me to wish?” he asked instead.

“Something you want. Or something you don’t want. It’s not my wish – it’s yours. And don’t say your wish out loud or it won’t come true and then it’s just a waste of a golden dragon.”

That made him laugh. Perhaps there was more of Elia in this girl’s personality as well as in her looks. He couldn’t imagine Rhaegar Targaryen being so blunt. To him, everything about life was like the heaviest of tomes, full of meaning and interpretation and analysis. He leaned over the edge, closed his eyes and dropped the coin into the well. _One day, I wish for you to be a queen._

“You did wish something good, didn’t you?” Rhaenys asked sceptically.

“Rhaenys,” said Rhaegar, a gentle warning in his tone. “I do not think he will have wished for death and pestilence.” Oberyn cocked an eyebrow and said nothing. Choosing to ignore his silence, Rhaegar held out another golden dragon and added, “What of your own wish, sweetling? You told me you had a wish to make.”

Rhaenys hummed as she plucked the coin from her father’s palm, and then her little fist closed around it. She stepped up to the well and threw the coin into the well as if she was throwing a shortspear into the heart of an opponent. Rhaegar chuffed a surprised laugh at her vehemence. “You really meant that wish, didn’t you?”

“I did.” She paused, then put her hands on her hips and stood back. In that moment, it did not take much for Oberyn to envisage her standing with the Iron Throne at her back. “When can I go, Father?”

“When you’re old enough,” came Rhaegar’s simple reply.

“I could go with my Uncle. He would look after me.”

A tense quiet descended as Rhaegar and Oberyn looked one another in the eyes. Oberyn knew instantly what the prince was thinking – could he be trusted? “Rhaenys, I have said that you may go when you’re older.”

Rhaenys’s lilac eyes turned hard as iron and she scowled. “But I want to go now.”

Seeing his moment, Oberyn jumped in, “I would gladly show her Dorne, Your Grace.”

“I’m sure you would,” came Rhaegar’s steely reply. “But my daughter is not quite five. That is much too young to travel such a long distance away from home.”

“Many children are sent to ward at that age,” Oberyn said. “I was seven when I was first sent to Sandstone and I stayed there for nearly a decade, until I was a man grown.” He shrugged passively. “A short trip to Dorne would be a benefit to her… and mayhaps it would help with her grieving.”  

That stopped Rhaegar in his path. He looked long at his daughter and then sighed, relenting. “She will go with her own Kingsguard. Ser Arthur Dayne, of course. And it will be a trip of no more than one moon’s turn.”

“Of course.”

“And you will be held personally responsible for her safety and comfort, Prince Oberyn. If anything should happen to my daughter, there will nothing but fire and blood for Dorne.” He fixed Oberyn with a stare so hard and rigid that it was akin to being pinned down with nails. “Fire and blood,” he repeated.


	15. EDDARD - And So It Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned and the lords of Westeros face their future and the choices they must make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time. I'm sorry for that, but I hope this rather longer than usual chapter will please.

EDDARD – And Now It Ends

 

He had left her, but it had saddened him to do so. She had seemed half a spectre of the brash, confident girl he had known and loved and he found himself cursing all that had happened. How could things have ended up so ruined? Ned had never been one for looking back and regretting decisions he had made, but he wondered how different things would have been had he not taken Robert’s request for Lyanna’s hand to his father. Was it he who had started this whole terrible chaos in motion?

But no… such thoughts were poisonous. He could not blame himself any more than he could blame Robert, or Brandon, or Rhaegar, or even Lyanna herself. It was impossible to look to one individual when the whole of life was connected like threads in a tapestry.

As he walked away from her rooms, mulling over that metaphor, his thoughts turned not for the first time in the last few turbulent weeks, to Jon Arryn. He had died because he had blamed Rhaegar for Robert’s death, and because he had been unable to put the past behind him. Part of Ned understood how his old mentor had felt – it was often hard to forget ill things that had happened, especially when they had turned your life upside down – but part of him thought Jon a fool as well. However painful it might be, when the world changed, you had to change with it, or else you were like to get trampled on all over again.

Mayhaps this was the moment when he had to change. There was a time when he would have moved the earth for Lyanna, given her whatever she had asked him for and promised her anything. But that was before. He was a husband now, and a father, and he had been lucky to have been spared his life. He could not simply throw that away so he could give his sister exactly what she wished. Lyanna would have years yet with her boy and when the time came for Edgar to be warded, at least he would be going somewhere where he would be among family.

Ned tried to comfort himself with these thoughts as he made his way through the halls of the Tower of the Hand, but still the guilt pricked at him. He hated to see his sister so beaten and sad. She may have made mistakes and chosen her path both wilfully and unwisely, but she was still his sister and he did not wish to see her flounder.

When he arrived back at his rooms, it was fully dark. It still felt strange to be walking around as a free man and even stranger to find that a handmaid had been into his rooms to light candles and kindle a fire in the hearth. The heat of that fire was too much for Ned though, so he went to the window and flung open the shutters, letting the night air flow in. It was never cold in King’s Landing, but the freshness was enough to remind him of the North.

For a long while, he stood there, looking out across the city, imagining the rooftops and chimney stacks turned to windblown trees and rolling, snow-pocked moors, the sounds of stray dogs barking in the streets changed to the howls of wolves. There was nothing he wanted more than to take his new family home to Winterfell and never come south of the Neck again, yet he knew he could not leave now. There was a coronation planned for two days hence and given all that had happened, Ned felt it important that he attend and give his blessing to the man who had pardoned him. _It will take some time before it feels right to call him my king, though._

And then there was the matter of the meeting of all the lords of the land that Rhaegar had called for. That had been arranged for the day before the coronation, tomorrow, and Ned understood why well enough. Rhaegar wished to ensure that both events were well-attended and this was the surest way to do that. It was a cunning arrangement, and Rhaegar seemed certain that all would be a success, but Ned was not so confident. The high lords might come to sit on that council, but who was to say that they were as ready to assist the Prince’s rule as he supposed? War wounded a nation, and wounds took time and care to heal fully. Even then, the scars often still remained.

Sighing, Ned closed his eyes and let the cool air wash over him. It was sure to be a turbulent few days and sure to be the kind of experience Ned had done his best to avoid throughout his short life. Politics had never intrigued him like it had his father, or Jon Arryn, and he had never much cared for power struggles. Given a choice, he would stay well away from such things.

But there was no choice, and so here he was, adrift in a sea of strangeness and doing his best to stay afloat.  

He wondered if Catelyn was still awake and if she would mind him coming to sit with her. He had not seen her since the day before and he found himself missing the comfort of her presence. In this unfamiliar and uncertain place, it felt good to know that she was with him.

But despite everything that had passed between them in these last few weeks, they were still little more than strangers, a young man and woman pushed together for the sake of allegiance and honour. It was the kind of marriage that Westeros was built on, and the kind of marriage Ned had always suspected he was in line for, but the rebellion had left its mark on him and there was a part of him that longed for more. He wanted to build a family again, something from the ashes and ruins that he could truly take joy from. He hoped Catelyn wished for the same.

It was with that thought in his mind that he left his rooms and walked the route to where his new wife and son now resided. He stood beyond the door, listening within, undecided about whether or not to knock; he not wish to awaken them. There were small sounds, though, so after a deep breath in, he knocked.

Catelyn opened the door a little, but on seeing his face, opened it wider. “My lord?” She seemed surprised. “I thought you would be with your sister. How is she?”

Her concern was touching. “My sister is a little better. But she still has far to go. The maester says another week will tell if she is to recover fully.”

“That is encouraging, at least,” she said.

A moment hung, the sort of silence that often occurred between two people who did not truly know one another, then Catelyn stepped aside. “Would you like to come in, my lord? Your son is sleeping, but if you would wish to look on him.” She was dressed in night attire – a long, pale-blue shift with delicately embroidered flowers around the neck – making Ned wonder whether it would be honourable to accept her invitation. She seemed to sense his discomfort and smiled. “I am ready for bed, my lord, but you are welcome. You are my husband, after all.”

Ned nodded and stepped within. Her rooms were warm, warmer even than his had been, and he found himself involuntarily tugging at his tunic in an attempt to loosen the lacing. Catelyn said, “I am sorry, my lord, for the warmth within. My handmaiden has been in to stoke the fire just a short while ago and the babe--”

“I know, the babe must not be allowed to get chill. How old is he now?”

“Five weeks and three days, and growing all the while. Here, let me show you him…”

She led the way through the anteroom into what appeared to be her bedchamber. Several candles burned around the room, casting flickering yellow light about. A wooden swinging crib stood beside the bed, thin gauzy drapes hanging above it, and from within, Ned could hear the soft sounds of a sleeping babe. He stepped closer to look. Torrhen’s little head with its reddish down of hair could be seen above the blankets, his eyes shut tight, his tiny pink lips softly parted. It had been several days since he had last laid eyes on his son, but he found himself thinking that it seemed that the boy had grown even in those few days.

“He has grown,” said Ned in astonishment. “He will be running around before we know it.”  

“He will.”

There was a long pause as Ned reflected on the circumstances that had brought him to this point and how he had gone from boy to man to husband to father in the space of just less than a year. He stared at his son for a while, then turned to look at Catelyn, feeling awkward. His wife had done nothing to make him feel that way, yet still he could not quite be at ease in her presence. No doubt it was all part of the process of getting to know each other.

Catelyn’s smile was warm. “I was about to sit and drink some warm milk out on the balcony before bed. Would you care to join me?”

The invitation made a little of his unease evaporate. “Yes, I would like that.”

He followed her as she walked out of the bedchamber and into another room, where a pair of white-painted slatted doors led out onto the balcony. They were closed, but she pushed them open and stepped outside, gesturing towards a pair of wooden chairs placed around a low table. “Sit, my lord, and I will fetch you some milk.” Ned nodded, but stood and waited while she disappeared inside and returned a moment later with two steaming cups of milk. She handed one to him then took her own and sat at the table, tucking her legs up alongside her. Her casual position reminded Ned that he was still standing and so he eased himself into the chair opposite, watching as she smiled a knowing smile at him. “Out with it, then,” she said after a moment.

He frowned, a little taken aback by her forthrightness. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t tell me, Lord Stark, that you came here simply to sit on my balcony and drink bedtime milk with me. My father looks exactly the same way when something is weighing on his mind, so I’m used to spotting the lines of the face when someone wishes to talk something over.” She smiled again. “So out with it.”

Ned couldn’t help but chuff out a soft laugh, at her boldness and her accuracy. He looked away to the floor, smiling but saying nothing.

“If it’s your sister, I understand your concern. But I have a feeling that while she is not out of your thoughts, she is not the heaviest stone lying upon you right now.”

He looked up. Catelyn’s blue eyes were flashing like jewels in the half-light cast from the torches within. Brandon had been right, he found himself thinking. She really was a beauty. “You are right,” he admitted in a low voice, taking a nervous sip of milk. “I did not think I would sleep with the thoughts I had in my head, so I sought you out.”

“You thought you might talk with me and I could ease your burden…” Catelyn added.

“That is a wife’s duty, is it not?” he asked. He felt uncomfortable stating that fact, given that his wife was apparently a much bolder soul than he was. Once again, Catelyn raised one eyebrow in a thoughtful arch and straightened her back so she was sitting quite upright, her attention fixed on him.

“It is,” she allowed. “And of course I shall do my duty.”

Ned nodded. He looked at the contents of his cup. “But please share your own thoughts with me, my lady. I would wish for you to do that always.”

“That, I’m afraid, will never be a problem, my lord. My father used to tell me that my mouth would get me in trouble one day.”

She raised her own cup to hide the curve of a guilty smile, then took a slow drink. Ned watched her, watched the touch of the moon light her fiery hair with silver and her pale skin glow softly.

Finally, he spoke: “I want to go home.”

He looked away once the words had left his mouth, their voicing stirring the great abyss of longing that sank away within him. It felt as if he had expunged something sinful from his soul, yet when he glanced back to her, he could see the warmth of understanding in her eyes. “Yes,” she agreed simply.

“But,” he continued sadly, “I cannot leave this damned place until Rhaegar Targaryen has a crown placed on his head and I have served him as he sees fit. I have to sit in that Throne Room on the morrow and attempt to appease the lords of the realm in his name when just  a moon’s turn ago, I was taking up arms against him. I feel like a hypocrite.”

“You are not a hypocrite.”

“I am!” he protested, getting to his feet and pacing distractedly to the edge of balcony to peer out into the blackness of the night. “I swore my name to Robert’s Rebellion and now look at me! I have taken freedom and subjugation. Where is my honour?”

Catelyn stared at him. “Ned, your honour has not been compromised – your pride mayhaps, but pride and honour are not the same things. What were your reasons for rebelling in the first place?”

Ned blinked. He and Robert had never actually _discussed_ the reasons for the rebellion. All that had been left unspoken, as if understood by both parties. “My sister’s kidnap, my father and brother’s murders… The Mad King’s threat upon my own life…” His voice trailed away.

“Aerys is dead and though your sister is finding out that she cannot play the game quite as well as she believed she could, she is alive and safe and will learn to find her place,” said Catelyn. “Just as you must do also. The present changes the past, and looking back you will never see the same things you saw when you looked upon them first. Sooner or later, it is right, and honourable, to let go of that past. The Great Council Meeting will be a hard thing, for you, for Rhaegar and for a great many others. But it will signal the way to the future.” She paused and smiled softly at him. “And then we shall go home.”

Ned, who had been staring blindly at his cup of milk while he listened to her, looked up at that. Her eyes met his, unblinking and set firm. “I have been looking forward to seeing Winterfell,” she said.

He had never been one for words, but had often wished that he could open his mouth and pour out great rhetoric instead of stumbling foolishly over his sentences. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to tell her how much what she had just said meant to him, but restraint instead prevailed. “You are kind, my lady.”

“I am honest, my lord,” Catelyn replied. “It will be good to get away from this city and all the trouble it has brought.”

“It will.”

“And our son should grow up in the place that is his birthright.”

They looked at one another for a long time, the table between them a dividing line, then Ned came to himself. He glanced up at the night sky; the moon was nearing its zenith and the hour was clearly late. He should be returning to his own rooms and leaving her to get some rest while the castle was quiet and the babe was sleeping. He drained his cup and set it down. She stood with him and stepped around so they were face to face. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded.

Her face was tilted slightly upwards and it was suddenly nothing at all to lean down and kiss her. They had not shared anything like intimacy since he had bid her goodbye at Riverrun all those moons ago. He could see that courtyard so clearly in his mind now, the pink light of dawn just visible above the battlements and the wind licking at her hair. She had kissed him then, before he had mounted up, and as he’d ridden away, he’d wondered whether he’d ever see her again.

She had seemed so serious back then, but now, as he pulled back, he hoped he would see her smiling.

And indeed she was. Feeling a flush growing inside him at the thought that she had welcomed his kiss, he smiled back. “May I?” he asked, reaching and taking her face in his hands.

She gave him no verbal answer, but leaned up and into him.

Inhibitions fell away as they pressed their mouths together again. Dimly, Ned was aware of the fact that they were standing on a balcony in full view of the entire castle, but while he knew that should probably bother him, he found himself caring hardly at all. What mattered was just the feel of her in his arms, the warmth of her, and the gentle touch of her lips against his. He could feel himself growing hard as the kiss deepened and so, it seemed, did Catelyn. She pressed against him as if she were relishing the sensation, yet even as she did, he realised that his wanton reaction was neither thoughtful nor fair. Ned’s knowledge of childbirth was limited mostly to the science of the subject, but he had enough sense about him to understand that five weeks after a birth was no time at all to be demanding that his wife lay with him. With considerable effort, he broke away and stepped back.

Catelyn’s face was flushed pink and she frowned up at his sudden withdrawal. “Is something the matter, my lord?” she asked. “Did I—”

“I am sorry, my lady. I was being unforgivably thoughtless. My apologies.” He bowed his head as he gathered his composure and willed his self-control to return. A fire had been lit in his belly, it seemed.

“Thoughtless?”

“Yes, I…” He shook his head and took in a deep, steadying breath. “It is not fair of me to come to your chambers and behave thus. You have not long given birth.”

Hoping that she heard his shame, he sighed and began to turn away. Her hand on his arm stopped him. Looking back, he saw her frown deepen. “I will leave you now, my lady,” he said.

“Leave me?”

There was an air of disappointment in her voice that even Ned could not help but notice. He agonised a moment as he tried to read her. She saved him further trouble and added,

“Go if you must, Ned, but I do not wish you to leave.” She smiled shyly. “I was enjoying your company.”

Ned blinked. Somewhere below, a servant shouted and he glanced toward the sound, half as instinct and half as relief of somewhere else to turn his gaze. He could feel a surge of heat reddening his chest and neck, climbing steadily upward, and he opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. He was gawping, he knew, but his body was suddenly made of clay and he felt utterly out of control of his faculties.  Her voice was full of laughter as she said, “Oh, Ned.” She took his hands in hers as an apology and he could feel the pads of her fingers pressing into the callouses caused by wielding a sword. “Your concern is very touching, but if I was worried that you might force yourself on me, I would not have agreed to wed you.”

Words failed him once again, but he managed a dumb nod nonetheless.  

“Of course, should you really wish to leave, I will not stop you,” she continued. “But I would be glad if you would stay. After all, we are now husband and wife.”

He drew in a breath. “Yes,” he said.

“We will have to share a bed again.” Her voice was matter of fact, as plain as a new sprung day, but she smiled a warm, compassionate smile that started the tension leaching away from him. “So, it makes no matter if it is tonight or another, I think.”

“You wish for me to lie with you?” It was a stupid question and the instant the words were out of his mouth, Ned wished to have them back again. The blood was coursing in his veins, roaring in his ears like the worst Northern gale. His palms felt sticky and he withdrew them from her touch to wipe them on his breeches.

Catelyn seemed unperturbed by his discomfiture though and merely shrugged. “I do not wish you to leave.”

She reached up and pressed her mouth to his.

“Oh,” said Ned.

He woke with the dawn, as usual, to find his left arm numb from the shoulder down. In the half wakefulness of stirring, he thought he was back in the stockade they had placed him in on the journey from the Trident to King’s Landing, his bones sore and his muscles tight from resting on the cold, hard ground. But there was no dampness, and he was warm… so very warm, that he knew in the next instant that he was not.

Swallowing, he twisted his head to find the cause of his paralysis. A head of red-brown hair was resting heavily in the crook of his elbow and at the sight, memory flooded through him. She was asleep still, her face softened by the extreme relaxation only deep sleep can provide, the gentle curve of her lips parted ever so slightly; yet it was with relief that he realised that he was still wearing his shirt and breeches and she her nightgown. He had not treated her dishonourably. But it was morning and he was abed and, it seemed, his cock was concerned with things other than honour. Mentally setting about thinking of the most unarousing things he could imagine, he hoped to the Gods she wouldn’t wake up before he had control of himself once again.

She did not, and after a few moments, he thought himself awake and sensible enough to get up without disturbing her. With the gentlest of tugs, he extracted his arm and then rose. His boots were lying by the side of the bed, along with his tunic and sword belt, and he bent to retrieve them. In silence, he dressed, but as he fastened the buckle on his belt, he heard her stir and then her blue eyes opened and fixed on him. “Good morning, my lord,” she murmured with a smile.

Ned couldn’t help his own returning smile. Her hair was wild and tousled, set alight by the milky pale rays of morn and he found himself thinking there could not be a finer sight in all the Seven Kingdoms. “Good morning, my lady,” he replied. “Did you sleep well?”

She yawned. “I did.”

A mewling cry came from the cradle at the end of the bed and, belatedly, Ned remembered the presence of his son. Surely the babe could not have slept the entire night through? He looked towards the child and Catelyn caught his look and smiled.

“I fed him in the night,” she explained, as if reading his thoughts. “You were fast asleep and I tried to be quiet so as not to wake you. I knew you had an important day ahead of you.”

Ned blushed. “You should have woken me, my lady.”

“Why? If you pardon the bluntness, what could you have helped with?”

She rose from the bed, smoothing out her nightgown, and went to the cradle. She unpeeled the swaddling blankets from around the tiny boneless body with gentle hands. Ned, staring now, saw that two dark roses of wetness had formed over her breasts, making the pale material of her nightgown transparent. Her nipples, dark and erect, were quite clearly visible. With no sense of embarrassment, she untied the ribbon that laced the front of her gown together and brought the babe to her breast. The little rooting mouth fastened on with fervour and began to suckle, inducing a sigh of relief from Catelyn.

Ned knew he should go, yet he couldn’t bring himself to look away. He had heard men speak of how women fell in love with their babes, but had never heard that the tiny things could hold such hypnotic power over men too. “Does it -?” he began, then stopped himself. What was he thinking? Such matters were not material for discussion! He shook his head, then apologised, “I am sorry, my lady. I am prying.”

Ignoring him, Catelyn explained, “It does come as something of a relief when the milk begins to flow. And yes, it can hurt too.” She was gazing down at the babe as he nursed and brought her finger up to caress the downy cheek.

Ned said nothing. Despite her kind words, he still felt like he was intruding on some private moment.

“I hope the Council meeting will be more relief than hurt,” said Catelyn, changing the subject with the skill of a master conversationalist. Ned blinked and looked up, meeting her warm blue eyes. “Do not worry, Ned. Whatever happens, you have done your best.”

“Does it show on my face?” he asked, half a child again in his uncertainty.

“A little, mayhaps,” Catelyn agreed, “but no more than it will show on anyone else’s face.”

Carefully, she detached the babe from her nipple and turned him so he could latch onto the other breast, then looked back up. “Remember only that everyone who sits around that table today is in the same position, even Rhaegar Targaryen. But you all have the same goal - to build something from the ashes.”   

Ned was early. Pale morning sunlight streamed golden and warm through the high windows in the Throne Room. In the bright shafts of light, dust motes floated and the silence echoed like the depths of a crypt, with only the sound of his boots ringing on the stone floor as he walked. It had been just a few short weeks since he had last stepped foot in this room, a beaten man, weakened and exhausted from imprisonment, and bent his knee to his new allegiance. The memories were still fresh in his mind and as he walked, he could almost hear again the indrawn breath of the crowd and the swish and click of the headsman’s sword as it took off Jon Arryn’s head. Many nights since then, he had questioned his decision, knowing in his heart that he had done the only thing he could, but wondering all the while whether it would prove to be the right thing. Only time would tell, he knew, but still the questions crowded.

At the far end of the room, the Iron Throne loomed dark and massive on its stone dais, its hard seat unoccupied for the present. Not for the first time, Ned found himself thinking that the great thing looked half alive, bristling like a wild animal baring its claws. He thought to climb the steps and behold it more closely, but the throne held a kind of power he could not put a name to and instead he found himself frozen at the foot of the dais, looking up.

Turning, discomfited by the sensation, he saw that a large circular table had been placed before the dais and several dozen high-backed chairs were grouped around it. The table was made from oak – he could tell by the pattern of graining – but it had been stained black with some kind of oil, and the edges were carved with licking flames. Someone had thought to place several ewers of water in the centre, along with a collection of cups, but elsewise the table was empty.

“Good morning, Lord Stark,” came a voice through the quiet and Ned spun towards the sound.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood in the doorway of the side entrance Ned had just come through. He was dressed handsomely in white breeches, undershirt and stock, then a black silk tunic, the sleeves of which were dagged and embroidered with red and silver three-headed dragons. Black knee boots, polished to a mirror shine, concluded his attire. His hair was loose about his shoulders, but as he approached, he reached behind his neck and pulled it back, securing the white blonde locks with a ribbon of black velvet. He wore no crown nor any other indication of his status besides the finery of his dress.

“Your Grace,” said Ned with a bow of his head.

“You are early, Lord Stark,” continued Rhaegar. “I had thought myself to be an early riser, but plainly you have the best of me in that regard.”

“I have always woken with the dawn.”

“My grandfather used to say that the best of men did not waste their lives abed, but instead made use of all the hours from dawn to dusk.” He chuffed a wry laugh. “But, I am afraid that I have often fallen afoul of that advice. In my opinion, there is nothing to make laziness more compelling than the comfort of a featherbed.”

Thinking of how he had woken warm and peaceful in Catelyn’s bed this morning, Ned inclined his head with some measure of understanding. “When do we begin, Your Grace?” he asked.

“In one hour,” Rhaegar replied. He had walked a half-circle around the table, straightening the chairs with the attention to detail of a nervous man. “I came to check that all was well.”

Ned glanced at the minimal furniture and then at the empty cavern of the Throne Room. There was little he could see that could not be well with this degree of simplicity. And Rhaegar, it seemed, now sensed that the falsehood in his words had been detected and a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “What is it about you, Lord Stark, that compels me to declare myself truly? I came because my guts are turning themselves to water at the prospect of what I have brought upon myself and I feared if I spent one more moment alone in my rooms, I would go mad with the waiting.”

The words had poured out in a cascade of feeling and Ned knew that the shock of hearing Rhaegar’s blunt confession must show on his face, for his new king-in-waiting laughed out loud. “I am sorry, Stark. I did not mean to unsettle you with my honesty.”

“I am afraid I am not used to members of your family being so open,” Ned explained, thinking first of Aerys and his plots and schemes and paranoia, and then the sleight of hand and secrecy with which Rhaegar himself had acted. Despite the professed honesty of words, Ned still could not bring himself to let his guard down. Even now he was convinced there was more to Rhaegar’s motives than a simple desire to usurp his father and rule the Seven Kingdoms himself.

Rhaegar’s brows rose and he regarded Ned with a coolness shielding what might have been mild insult. “Well, I suppose that comment is well-deserved,” he said at length. “And no doubt I shall have to endure a good deal more comments of similar feeling before today is over.”

Behind them, the side door opened and Ser Barristan Selmy entered, in full Kingsguard ceremonial regalia, his white scales glinting in the morning sun. “Your Grace,” he called across the empty room. “The Lords Tyrell and Redwyne are without and are requesting to speak with you. What shall I tell them?”

Rhaegar sighed. “Tell them I shall see them when the Council Meeting begins. I am not speaking with anyone before this meeting, ally or no.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” replied Ser Barristan with what Ned thought was a pointed glance towards himself, and left.  

“It is a balancing act,” explained Rhaegar once the door had closed behind Ser Barristan. “And one that feels as if it is often off-centre. I hope to bring peace to the realm, so we can all face the future and its ills as one nation.”

“Winter is coming,” said Ned quietly.

“Indeed. And the fire and blood should be saved for when it is most needed, not wasted on fighting one another. Come with me, Lord Stark, and let us take a cup of something before the balancing act requires the both of us to work our hardest.”

Ned pondered these words as he supped the cup of mead that was placed into his hands by his new ally. Little else passed between them while they drank and Ned had the feeling that Rhaegar was counting the time as it crept by. His chiselled face had the look of someone deep in thought, though what those thoughts were, Ned could only guess. They were more than a simple nervousness about a meeting of men, of that he was sure. For some reason he knew not why, Rhaegar considered him important in some way and not just for the present.

Stannis Baratheon joined them as they neared the end of their cups, acknowledging Ned with the merest of nods. “The lords are gathered, Your Grace,” he said simply.

Rhaegar got to his feet, throwing the last of his mead down his throat before tugging at the hem of his tunic with sharp, quick hands. He drew in a deep breath then announced, “Then let us begin.”

Targaryen and Baratheon led the way along the hallways towards the Throne Room. No words nor looks were exchanged between them, yet they appeared to be aligned. Ned had not seen Stannis in person since he and Robert had visited Storm’s End at the start of the Rebellion. Then, the younger Baratheon had been in the shadow of his ebullient brother, but Robert’s death had now thrust Stannis to the fore, making him suddenly both high lord and eldest brother, a role he would not doubt consider his duty to fulfil. Physically, though, Stannis was little changed, a touch thinner, mayhaps, but the firm set of the jaw and the cool blue eyes were the same. And while Robert had worn his every emotion on his sleeve, Stannis had never been one for shows of either sorrow or happiness, preferring instead to keep himself distanced from almost everyone who crossed his path. Ned had never been sure whether he admired this in Stannis or not; he suspected, though, that it would be a trait he would make use of in his new position as Hand of the King.

Together, they walked through the side door entrance to the Throne Room. As the door opened, Ned heard the hush of the quiet voices of near half a hundred men humming in conversation. They were seated around the blackened oak table, dressed in their finest regalia. Ned could see the old Targaryen stalwarts of the lords Tyrell, Connington and Darry, but there were many more faces too, some he knew and others he did not.

When the door opened, all of the men looked up and then got to their feet, in ones and twos. Ned wondered if the hesitation before each slow rise in deference was intentional on some of their parts. Whatever it was, it did not seem to bother Rhaegar. He pulled out a chair for Stannis, waved Ned to another several spaces down and then sat himself, urging everyone around the table to follow suit.

Once everyone was again seated, there was a drawing in of breath, an audible measure of the tension in the room. Someone coughed and then another someone adjusted their chair with a grating of wood against stone. Ned glanced at Rhaegar, nervousness and uncertainty boiling together in the pit of his stomach. His new liege was outwardly calm, his indigo eyes steady and waiting for complete silence to fall. Beside him, Stannis straightened his already straight back and Ned saw the rise and fall of his throat as he swallowed. Catelyn had been right, he thought, they were all in the same position.      

That Stannis had yielded to the Royalists had not surprised Ned – once Robert had been killed and Ned captured, there was little chance of the rebellion continuing – but the deal he had struck to act as Rhaegar’s Hand was something unexpected. Stannis was just shy of his eighteenth name day and there were older and far more experienced individuals who would have born the title with ease, Tywin Lannister for one. Yet the Lion of Lannister had been looked over, despite his illustrious term of office as Hand for Aerys. Ned had wondered if Lord Tywin would think the snubbing an insult and would have kept himself away from Rhaegar’s Great Council meeting, but there he sat, silent as a statue several places down the table, his face coldly detached and unreadable.

Of course, Ned had learned that Tywin had struck his own deal with Rhaegar and for his pains had got back the thing he had been most aggrieved to lose – his son and heir, Jaime, now released from his vows as a member of the Kingsguard to return to Casterley Rock. And he was here, sitting at the table with every other high lord in the realm. That was mayhaps the most important thing of all. 

“Good morning, my lords,” Rhaegar greeted, his eyes travelling the circle of gathered lords, no doubt taking a register of whom was present. “It is with pleasure that I welcome you to King’s Landing, the Red Keep and this meeting of men. May I introduce my new Lord Hand, Stannis of the House Baratheon and Lord of Storm’s End.” He inclined his head and gestured towards Stannis, who clenched his jaw and nodded. “Mayhaps we should all follow suit and call our names for the record? Let us start with you, Lord Stark.”

Ned blinked at the request. While he and Stannis were among the youngest faces at the table, a great many of the gathered lords were old hands, well aware of one another’s identities. He cleared his throat. “Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,” said Ned. The titles still seemed somewhat strange to him, as if he was an imposter using them in arrogant usurpation. He looked around the table and saw the question in some of the old lords’ eyes, suddenly recognising that they did not all know what had been granted him along with his pardon. Mayhaps that was why Rhaegar had begun the roll call, to make sure that all around the table knew the changes that had been wrought by the end of the rebellion.

To Ned’s right was Raymun Darry, the new Lord Paramount of the Trident, and then next to him, Hoster Tully, looking in better health but with a good many more grey hairs amid the red, and then Nestor Royce, acting as guardian for the Arryn lands. Round the table they went, each man introducing himself with name and titles for all to hear, until Jon Connington, returned from exile in Essos and seated to Rhaegar’s left, called himself Lord of Griffin’s Roost and Master of Coin.

The turnout was impressive, Ned had to admit. The gamble Rhaegar had played had certainly paid off, and so far, Jon Connington was the only man to appear at all unhappy with the arrangements. Even Tywin Lannister was as remote and impassive as he had ever been. _A sleeping lion if ever there was one, though_ , thought Ned as he watched the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West.

Once the introductions had been made, Rhaegar brought forth two pieces of paper from an internal breast pocket in his tunic. He unfolded one and began to read. It was a notice, formally phrased, inviting all present to attend his coronation on the morrow. As he concluded his reading, Rhaegar looked up. “I should very much like to see the same turnout repeated,” he said, his voice quietly authoritative. “I understand that my father was unpopular and that his actions and conduct unforgiveable to many of you, but I assure you that while I may be his son and heir, I am a different man. Those of you who know me well will see the truth in my words, but I am sure that some of you who know me less well will still doubt. I know that in the eyes of some, I have not always acted wisely or well, but there was method in my apparent madness, which will become clear in time. All I can do is insist that I do not take the office of kingship lightly and I shall swear my oaths to the realm tomorrow with truth, sincerity and every fibre of honour I hold. These seven kingdoms are my inheritance, but they are also my responsibility, as are the lives of everyone who lives within their borders. War has cost us all dearly and yet there are threats stirring far greater than any we have imagined, threats none of us are prepared for. I intend to protect and defend this realm as well as rule and govern it. So, I ask you to trust in me, my lords, and charge your swords alongside me.” He glanced pointedly at Ned. “Winter is coming.”

His words done, Rhaegar sat stock still, looking around the table. There was something almost challenging in his purple-blue eyes, a dare to any to defy him that made Ned wonder if he was indeed expecting people to get up and walk out of the room at that point. But nobody moved or uttered a sound. There could be no doubting Rhaegar was earnest, of that Ned was certain, and the pledge he had just made was both honourable and admirable, but were people ready to forget the past and face the future with him? None would wish Aerys returned, but how many had wished the Targaryens undone and sided with the rebels? How many felt they could trust the man who sat before them and swore his soul upon his office?

Oberyn Martell, who had been unusually silent, chose that moment to speak up. “You speak of Winter and ask us to trust you, yet that in itself makes me wary. Since when has any Targaryen _requested_ his people follow him?” A wry smile crossed the Dornish prince’s face. “Are you truly offering a choice, I wonder, or is this merely a ribbon and a bow for a new regime?”

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes and regarded Oberyn with a steady gaze for a long moment, something faintly feline about what appeared to be suppressed irritation. Finally, he sighed and replied, “I am _merely_ extending the hand of peace, my Prince. There is much to be lost from warring with one another.” He stood and straightened to his full height. Rhaegar was a tall man – not so tall as Robert Baratheon, but nonetheless he stood a clear head higher than most of the men in the room, including the small and wiry Prince Oberyn – and now he used his height to command. “I am the rightful king,” he stated. “There is a choice. Of course there is a choice, but might I remind you all that we have not long ended a rebellion where one man’s choice caused a storm of chaos and cost the lives of thousands. I am endeavouring to prevent such a situation arising once again. A united Westeros is far greater in power than one divided, and as the ruler of this land, I believe unity is the wisest path to choose.” He paused and fixed Oberyn with a cold stare. “In short, I do not wish to bring down fire and blood on any one else again. But do not question my resolve.”

Oberyn’s smile widened so his teeth were visible and he nodded to Rhaegar. “I was just… wondering, Your Grace,” he said, finishing the last word with a quiet hiss. Slowly, he sat. “After all, choices are such tempting things.”

“Indeed,” said Stannis Baratheon. He leaned forward in his chair and ran a thoughtful hand over his jaw and neck. He had let his beard grow out and now the lower half of his face was covered with a thick dark fuzz that made him seem even more inscrutable than usual. “But all choices have consequences, do they not, Prince Oberyn?”

That there was a veiled threat in Stannis’s words was obvious to even the simplest of men around the table. Oberyn’s eyes flicked towards the new Hand of the King. His lip curled just a touch. “Naturally,” he agreed. “I am quite sure _you_ are familiar with that concept, my Lord Hand.”

Stannis did not answer for a moment, as if deciding whether to incite the man they called the Viper any more. “Yet here stands our rightful King. And the question remains, are you a man who believes in justice and truth, or are you one who dreams of glory and power?”

“Truth and justice,” echoed Oberyn. “Such noble words. If only all men believed in them.” He smiled at Stannis, but his hand had slipped to his belt; no doubt there was a weapon concealed within his silken robe. Ned heard Stannis grind his teeth from across the table and in a moment, he found himself on his feet.

“My lord, Prince Oberyn,” he interjected. “This is no time or place for futile disagreement.” He turned and addressed the gathered men. “Nor is it the time for echoes to affect our decisions. I have been pardoned by this man,” he said, gesturing towards Rhaegar, “and I am grateful for that. There are those who would have been content to give me no choice, to have seen me dead for the crimes I had committed.” He looked pointedly at Stannis. “But here I stand, yet living and in possession of my family’s lands and titles. I have had to swallow some dignity and some pride, but in return, I am to be allowed to return home with my wife and child, to live in peace. I consider that a fair bargain, would you not agree, Prince Oberyn?”

Oberyn inclined his head. “A bargain, for sure,” he said.

“I have heard people say that I had no choice,” continued Ned, “but I always did. I could have refused the offer that was made to me and lost my head on the block like Jon Arryn did. That is a choice, my lords. It may not be a pleasant one, but it is still a choice. Just as we all have a choice here today, one that is neither easy nor pleasant. We can disband and return to our respective castles and holdfasts, calling our banners to fight on, or we can sign our names to a peace and look forward to the future.” He looked each man around the table in the eye before returning to meet Oberyn’s gaze. “What say you?”

There was a long silence, so complete that Ned was sure that he had stopped breathing as he could no longer hear anything but the thump thump thump of his heart. Oberyn Martell regarded him with dispassion, then slowly, he held out his hand. Ned took it, uncertainly, almost wincing as Oberyn gripped his own hand with a strength his slender frame belied. “Then it is true what they say about you, my lord Stark,” Oberyn said, with a smile. “You are a born leader of men.” He turned to Rhaegar Targaryen. “I swear my allegiance to you, King. All of Dorne is with you.”

Rhaegar bowed his head towards the Dornish prince. “I thank you, my Prince. I thank you.”

And then, as if from nowhere, the figures around the table began to rise once again, and before Ned could blink, a line of men formed in front of Rhaegar Targaryen, each one ready to swear himself to a new king.                


End file.
